


Devil's Disciples

by hybridshade (shimyaku)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Fingering, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Chuck as God, Hand Jobs, Incest, M/M, Mild Gore, Scars, Sexual Content, Transformation, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 09:37:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimyaku/pseuds/hybridshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean is lifted from the precipice of death by a strange figure that may not be entirely human, he finds himself thrust into a dark world of manic vampire-beasts, the warrior brothers that fight them, and <i>Sam</i>. There's also the matter of the newly kitted-out body he's in. It's strong, resilient and hyper-aware, but there's a couple of extra features that could still send him to an early grave.</p><p>Inspired by JR Ward's Black Dagger Brotherhood novel series</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Devil's Disciples  
 **Pairing:** Sam/Dean  
 **Rating:** nc17  
 **Genre:** AU, supernatural, action  
 **Warnings:** violence, some gore, explicit sex, vampires (kind of), bloodplay, transformation, mention of childhood traumas  
 **Word count:** >35k  
 **Summary:** When Dean is lifted from the precipice of death by a strange figure that may not be entirely human, he finds himself thrust into a dark world of manic vampire-beasts, the warrior brothers that fight them, and _Sam_. There's also the matter of the newly kitted-out body he's in. It's strong, resilient and hyper-aware, but there's a couple of extra features that could still send him to an early grave.

 **A/N:** Written for [](http://spn-j2-bigbang.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://spn-j2-bigbang.livejournal.com/)**spn_j2_bigbang** Based on JR Wards Black Dagger Brotherhood novel series.  
Super-duper amazing art by [](http://thruterryseyes.livejournal.com/profile)[**thruterryseyes**](http://thruterryseyes.livejournal.com/)

 

Prologue.

 

 

Dean runs.

Usually these circumstances are in the reverse and he's the one doing the chasing – it's his job to take down killers, after all. But it doesn't take a genius to know that one against three isn't great odds, and being a relatively smart guy, Dean knows better than to try standing his ground against any more than two of these black-blooded douchebags.

He's alone in a dark alley, his current work partner having fucked off more than an hour ago, and these bastards are hot on his trail, purposely gunning for him for no apparent reason. Sure he's taken them down before – hell, he took down another two of them, one after the other, hardly ten minutes ago – but not once in all the months he's been hunting them has he ever encountered more than two on a single occasion. He'd always assumed they travelled in pairs for whatever reason, and his theory had held true until just a few minutes ago.

He ducks behind an out of place dumpster and swings a hard left down another alley, this one barely wide enough for his shoulders. He doesn't slow even as he nearly trips and stumbles into an open and deserted laneway, but he does take a moment to focus on the sounds trailing him. There's one, two… three… _fucking hell_ , there's _four_ lots of footsteps coming up from behind, and while he might be able to get the jump on the first couple, by the time he's hacked them up enough to keep them dead the latter two will be all over him.

Dean spies an abandoned warehouse up ahead and is in the beginning stages of debating whether he could lead them through there in order to separate them, when one of the _things_ spits out an inhuman growling noise comparable to tin on gravel, and somehow gains on him as if they'd barely been running to begin with. He curses shamelessly, knowing he's likely lost his chance to control the situation, and whips out the two long-bladed daggers he hides down the side of his uniform trousers, one on each side.

The _snick_ they make as each length of steel leaves its leather sheath triggers something in Dean. It's something vicious and primal that runs bone-deep, something he hasn't yet grown the balls to confront head-on, but it still brings about a feeling of naturalness and _rightness_ every time he feels the weight of those blades in his palms. It's as if they're extensions of his hands, made of his own flesh and blood rather than the sharply hewn steel they've been crafted from. And while it admittedly scares the shit out of him that he feels this way, so as long as they do what they're supposed to he just goes along with it.

It's not like the daggers are anything special, either. He figured out early on that guns were useless against these _whatever-they-were_ and that knives (or cutting implements of any kind) were the way to go. These particular two he'd picked up from a local store that sold rifles and hunting goods. He'd only intended to walk out of there with a single, ordinary hunting knife, but after he'd glimpsed the matching pair in a fancy glass cabinet up the back, it was like they'd practically _called_ to him, entranced him and lured him over in a way that'd honestly been frightening. If he hadn't wanted them for the express purpose of killing needle-toothed creatures that bled motor oil – the whole thing screamed ridiculous and fantastical at best – he would've smacked himself upside the head and hightailed it straight back out of that creepy shop.

But now he has them, clutched tight in his unexpectedly-capable hands, and when the first creature attacks he's ready for it.

It lunges at him, teeth bared, fingers curled up like the claws of a wildcat. Dean smoothly plunges one of the blades through the centre of its forehead, black goo immediately spurting from the wound and spilling down its face. It roars and tries to take a swipe at his stomach, but Dean leaps back easily, wrenching out the blackened dagger from its face and swinging the other one to the side, separating the creature's hand from its arm.

The second beast comes at him from the side, looking to knock him down like a human-sized bowling ball. Dean ducks down and kicks out a leg, swiping the thing's feet out from under it and sending it face-planting onto the concrete. With one smooth arc he draws the blade across its neck and decapitates it, black ooze flowing out in a single, immediate burst.

_One down._

The first creature is still attempting to reorient itself, goo still pouring from its head wound and blinding its eyes, so Dean makes easy prey of it, again taking the head from its body with a lone slash.

Adrenaline is pumping through his veins with a steady throb, and the thirst to see black blood paint the ground is stronger than ever. It's just one more item on the list of things he can't quite bring himself to question – the insatiable desire to bring death to these beings he knows nothing about (not even their name), and the skill and intensity with which he does it. He knows deep down that there's still something undetermined simmering away beneath the surface of his skin, waiting to be let loose, but so far he's managed to keep it in check for fear that once he lets go there's no coming back.

_Two down._

The third and fourth are already standing there in the laneway, waiting.

Dean feels his hackles rise – these two are different somehow, he just _knows_ it. Physically they appear no different from the former two, yet both creatures seem bigger in some way, impassive strength radiating off them in waves. Dean postures himself, ready to strike at any time, and a strange, grating sort of noise emits from the things' mouths. It almost sounds as if… as if they're _laughing_.

"Nice costume, Wingman," one of the creatures hisses, a smug grin on his face.

Not once has Dean ever heard one of the things speak, and the shock of it along with the cryptic comment itself is enough to distract him, just long enough for one of them to get the drop on him.

He grunts as something swipes at his side, pain instantly spiking through his waist. He doesn't have to look to know that there's now a neat tear in his uniform, blood spilling out from the wound behind it. Twisting around, he strikes out with one of his blades, getting lucky and landing a long slice across the creature's chest. The thing reels back and Dean has just enough warning to dodge a punch from the second one, his feet skating smoothly along the ground like a dancer. Frustrated, but still confident, Dean moves in for the attack, feinting to the left before launching out with his right side, catching the creature in the jaw and in turn receiving a splatter of black blood across his arm.

The creature wipes the goo from its own face and grins, its fangs sharp like razors and awash with yet more blackness. Dean expects the fist that comes at him, redirecting it to his shoulder rather than his throat, but the hit that comes from behind he never sees coming. Five taloned fingers sink into the flesh of his back and squeeze, and as Dean's knees buckle under his weight he curses himself for taking his eyes off the second creature.

He swings wildly with both arms, his limbs suddenly feeling ten-times slower than they had moments before, and notes that neither of his blades struck their targets. The thing still standing before him just carries on staring and grinning with those foul teeth, and Dean snarls, kicking out behind him, knocking the second creature back several steps.

He's about to launch himself at it while it's still trying to rebalance itself, but the first creature decides that it's precisely the right moment to end his staring game and put a boot into Dean's ribs. The air rushes from his lungs and Dean finds himself on all fours, coughing and gasping for breath. He'll be surprised if he doesn't have at least one broken rib, but it's hardly the time to dwell on his injuries.

The daggers had fallen from his hands, so he makes a grab for them as he rolls onto his back and away from the creatures, allowing him just enough time to scramble back onto his feet. The two things stare intently at him, as if they're starving and Dean's a steaming hot steak dinner. They both come at him simultaneously for the first time, and Dean pushes his own pains to the back of his mind, twirling the blades in his palms and striking with two hands. He feels a fist slam into the side of his head and another claw cut into his left shoulder, but neither of the creatures gets away clean, Dean landing a stomach wound on one and a bone-deep gash on the thigh of the other.

The thing with the leg wound immediately has troubles staying upright, so Dean takes his chance to attack the less-injured of the two, barrelling into its chest and sending them both tumbling to the ground. He lands yet another stab to its middle, getting black goo all over his ripped-up uniform, but the thing gets a hold of his left shoulder and squeezes, talon-like nails slicing into his flesh and wrenching the bone from its socket with a horrid _crunch_.

Dean screams, the blade dropping uselessly from his left hand. His adrenaline spikes and he pushes back against the creature, flipping it onto its back. He has just enough time to open its bowels with his knife before the second creature takes hold of his bad shoulder from behind and sends him skidding along the concrete ground. He groans pathetically, his whole left side paralysed with pain, and Dean wonders for the first time how, or rather _if_ , he's going to get out of this with his life.

The second creature hobbles over to him, its injured leg all but unusable, and it collapses down on top of Dean, its filthy, tar-smelling breath puffing over his face. He tries to bring his knife up but finds his arms pinned by the thing's knees, and quick as a flash the creature stabs in-and-out of Dean's chest with its talons. There's a moment of complete stillness as the creature waits for Dean to realise what it's done, and as the blood begins to well up and soak the front of his uniform the thing smiles with glee.

Dean struggles and kicks, the pain in his left arm worse than ever, but the creature just continues to stab him like a child with a new toy, shallow little starbursts of gashes appearing all over his chest and stomach. He can feel himself getting light-headed from the shock and blood loss, and he knows he's running out of time to still put his lone dagger to use. But that feeling that he's always tamped down on, the craving to let _it_ loose and _kill_ in a way that he can't even fathom, it rears its ugly head right then in Dean's time of need, taking over his body and mind as he starts to weaken in earnest.

Suddenly it's as if Dean is watching from the outside, his consciousness somehow detaching itself from the rest of his body, yet he can feel and sense every moment of it like he's in two places at once. His arms take on strength he shouldn't have the ability to possess, and they pull themselves free of the creature's hold, hands closing around the thing's neck and squeezing until something goes _crack_. The creature's eyes bulge, and it starts to flail with its arms, pulling and scratching at Dean's hands. But Dean just pulls the thing even closer to his face, staring it straight into its haunting red eyes and he sucks in a long, deep breath of that fetid air.

The creature goes stock still, body rigid as a board. Dean simply takes another deep breath, his lungs expanding in a way that _aches_ but still feels natural, as if he's stretching a little-used muscle. Slowly, the thing's jaw drops open and a whisper of black smoke floats out, like an exhaled puff from a cigarette.

It starts as the size of a small thread, crawling out in a thin, airy stream, but the thread just keeps pulling forth and unravelling into Dean's mouth, escalating until the smoke is teeming out, thick and fast. Dean knows he should be choking – sucking in so much air shouldn't have been possible to begin with, let alone this foul, black muck – yet here he is doing just that, inhaling this essence from inside the creature.

With a loud _snap_ the smoke comes to an end, the thing's body going limp like a ragdoll – drained. Dean finds himself thrust back into full control of his body again, and there's a beat of motionless quiet before the pain of all his injuries pummels back into him like a ton of bricks. He barely manages to toss the creature's torso to the side, but its legs are still tangled on the ground with Dean's, and Dean can't find the strength to move an inch. His left side feels like every bone there has been crushed, and there's a cold, sticky sensation where the wound on his waist continues to bleed. The notion makes his head spin and his vision threaten to fade. He should've known it would happen eventually – that he would die cold and alone in an alley, after chasing down these mutant vampires that the world at large is completely ignorant of. With the reckless way he's been living his life, the reckless way he's been spending his work (and after-work) hours, he should've seen it coming.

The last moments that penetrate through his waning consciousness are of a shadow-cloaked man walking toward him and crouching down at his side. Some kind of death omen, perhaps? He has to be hallucinating.

The man is dressed all in black with heavy, laced-up boots, and floppy, dark brown hair masking half his face. He's a fucking mammoth of a man, all impossibly long limbs and broad, muscled shoulders, though Dean being flat on his back while this guy is hovering above him probably skews his perspective somewhat.

The man grabs firmly onto Dean's right arm – the not-broken one – staring down at him with a single hazel eye. Even as Dean drifts into the darkness, the man's few words echo through his mind.

"I'm here, Brother."

 

 

 

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It was September, the summer's warmth still present, but waning. Dean was on beat as usual, his dark blue uniform neat and tidy looking, his utility belt sitting snugly around his waist. His new partner Garth was still sitting in the passenger seat of the squad car while Dean was hangin' about outside. He didn't blame the kid, really – this was the graveyard shift, after all. This was the time when all the crazies were out and about on the city streets, and in this part of town you had to know how to look after yourself if you wanted to get by unscathed. Dean could probably lift Garth with one hand if he wanted to, the kid was so fucking scrawny. He wondered what would happen when something serious eventually came along – Garth had that 'deer in the headlights' look already, and he was only on his second day of night-shift, and only two hours in.

"Dean, you wanna get back in the car?"

Garth's voice sounded shit-scared. Dean grinned.

"What? You scared or som'thin', buddy? And this is a _quiet_ night."

The kid swallowed audibly.

"Fine. Whatever."

He went back to typing something on his phone, and Dean shook his head with distaste. He had no idea why Captain Singer kept sending these rookies out with him when he knew how Dean liked to work, but he liked to think he was getting a chance to test them, see how they'd perform when they had the fear of God slap them in the face. And if there was one thing Dean knew he was good at, it was breeding fear – in criminals and cops alike.

That wasn't to say all his temporary 'partners' went running for the hills. He'd had a few that obviously knew what they were doing and were in this career for the right reasons, naturally smart enough to figure out the Captain's intentions for sending them out to patrol in the dark of night. Still, they never stayed long, always transferring out after a handful of weeks or months once their training was done. Many of them even left comment on how reckless and irresponsible a cop Dean was.

Again, he didn't blame them at all; he knew his methods weren't for everyone, even if half the time he did it deliberately just to see how the kids would react. Captain Singer insisted he was doing it on purpose, probably to push people away so he wouldn't have to start compromising or communicating and thus didn't have to deal with the commitment of a real partnership. It freaked Dean out a little sometimes, how well the Captain saw through his façade and understood him, but better it was the Captain than anyone else. At least he knew what Dean responded best to and how to use him to the force's advantage, not to mention that he knew Dean's limits likely better than Dean did, and didn’t push him into situations he'd flip out over.

Case in point being Dean's former partner – his _proper_ partner, Benny. They'd been on beat together for years. They'd known each other inside and out, strengths and weaknesses, fears and loves. The precinct had had no better crime-fighting team than Dean and Benny, corny as that sounded.

They'd been on the hunt for a killer when things had gone horribly wrong. Sure, they weren't detectives per se, but the cops that patrolled the downtown area like Dean and Benny had all been brought in on the loop – they were on the lookout for a serial murderer, someone who'd gone 'rogue vampire' on them and was ripping victim's throats out left, right and centre and bleeding them dry. Problem was, no one had any kind of description of the culprit bar that they were 'tall-ish and dressed in dark clothes'. It could have been anyone in the whole fucking city, male or female, of any ethnicity.

So Dean and Benny had gotten serious about it. They'd been instrumental in helping detectives solve cases before, and they'd figured they could do it again. Their advantage came in the form of their rapport with people on the streets – homeless, prostitutes, junkies and the like. Within two weeks they'd had more information on the aptly-nicknamed 'Shadow Slasher' than the detectives had amassed in over two months.

For whatever reason, things had gone quiet for a long stretch of weeks after that – no sightings, no more bodies, nothing. They'd figured that maybe their culprit had realised how high profile he was becoming and had either decided to tone things down or move on to another hunting ground. That was until they were called to a disturbance near Chinatown at 2am one morning.

After making quick work of some drunkard douchebag who'd been taking his fists to his wife, Dean had been getting the guy comfy in the back seat of the squad car ready to drive him back for booking, when Benny had reacted to some far-off noise, hands automatically bringing his gun up at the ready. Trusting his partner's instincts, Dean had locked their prisoner securely in the car and followed Benny out into the dark alleyways around them, looking for anything that might have roused Benny's suspicions. They'd been slinking about for near ten minutes before they finally saw it.

Neither of them had known what to make of the sight before them. Halfway down an otherwise empty alley was a man – except, _not_ a man – crouched over what was clearly a lifeless, bloodied corpse. The not-man had his knees bent out at awkward angles, reminiscent of how a frog sits, and he was bent over the body on the ground, long claw-like fingers picking at a large, open wound on the corpse as if it were plucking the peas out of a beef stew. It discarded something onto the ground before leaning all the way down to the body and chomping down on its neck, happily gnawing away at the dead flesh.

Dean remembered tasting his own dinner again as it rushed all the way back up his throat, but Benny had given the signal to cover him, so he'd forced himself to swallow it back down and focus. He'd kept an eye on Benny as the other cop had tip-toed his way down the alley, just a few steps at a time, and as quietly as he could Dean had taken his phone and texted their location to their Captain, knowing he'd get the message. He hadn't wanted to risk using the radio which would have made too much noise.

Content that backup was on the way, Dean had followed his partner's lead and moved in on the alley, darting from doorway to dumpster in order to stay out of sight. His breath had caught in his throat once Benny had gotten within twenty feet of the not-man, and as Benny had set up the shot he hadn't even dared to blink. They'd made an agreement in the beginning that should they ever come across the 'Shadow Slasher' they would shoot first and ask questions later. And Dean had been damn glad of it, too, because whatever the fuck was going on with that dude, it wasn't normal.

The sound of three successive gunshots had echoed through the narrow alley, and all had gone quiet. Dean and Benny had shared a look of anticlimactic resignation between them, and had moved to put their guns away as they stepped out into the open. But no sooner had their boots crunched down on the gravel, than the nowhere-near-dead body of the not-man had leapt up to its feet from where he'd been slumped atop the corpse, growling from deep in its throat. Across its shoulder and chest had been three blackened holes visible through the dirty grey shirt it had worn. Benny clearly hadn't missed, but nor had the not-man seemed fazed by the injuries in the least.

Benny had raised his gun again and shot their target clear in the eye, and blood so dark it looked black had spilled from the socket, dripping down its face and neck. His partner had looked as shocked as Dean felt, but the further injury only appeared to enrage the not-man even more, its arms flexing as it had readied itself to attack.

Sirens became audible in the background, and Dean had estimated they were still several blocks over. At any other scene he would have been thankful or relieved, but right then all he'd been able to think was that by the time backup got there it might've been too late already.

Dean had raised his own gun and taken steady aim when Benny gave the signal to stay back. Taking the cue, he'd leaned against the edge of a dumpster and used it to angle his gun and keep his arms stable, while Benny had tucked his gun back in his belt and retrieved his nightstick and a Taser, at a loss for what other weapon might work. Dean had watched on in near-panic as the not-man had stalked over the corpse and into Benny's space, his partner bending into a fighting stance and striking out with the nightstick.

For every hit the not-man took, it'd thrown one back just as hard, catching Benny in several places with its claws. Dean hadn't even known why he was still holding his gun, since clearly bullets were nothing to the not-man, and he'd desperately wanted in on the fight – two against one would surely have been better odds. But he honoured the agreement he'd made with Benny way back in the day, that your fight was _your_ fight, no interfering unless things went seriously south. So he'd carried on watching as Benny got more and more scratched up and bruised. He'd been on the verge of calling bullshit on their agreement when he'd heard several more cop cars pulling up just on the other side of the alleyway.

He'd looked away for less than a moment, and in turning back he'd heard a shriek so high and piercing he'd reflexively cupped his hands over his ears. He'd noticed then that Benny had used the Taser, and the not-man clearly hadn't liked it, but once the electrical charge had worn down it simply pulled the leads from its body and launched itself at Benny with even more ferocity, its teeth snapping like a gator and viciously ripping a chunk of flesh from his partner's throat.

Benny had gone down like a lead balloon, clutching at his neck to stem the torrent of red blood flowing from the wound. The not-man had hightailed it out of the alley down a side street, but Dean nearly tripped over his own feet to get to Benny. He'd pulled the radio from his belt and practically screamed for someone to get a medic in there _stat_ , and he'd immediately heard the footsteps of other cops running into the maze of backstreets to find them. He'd seen straight away that Benny was losing too much blood too quickly, and he'd tried to stop his partner from talking but Benny had just waved him off, gurgling and choking as he'd screeched for Dean to go after the killer.

Dean had been about to smack him when Benny'd suddenly passed out, and the image of him lying there (as good as) dead had sparked something fearsome inside Dean that he'd never known was there – a thirst for revenge. He'd leapt to his feet and run faster than he ever had before – he wasn't going to let a killer like that get away, not a chance. Without even knowing where he was going, Dean had let his instincts kick in, leading him through the labyrinth of alleys at top speed.

He'd lost count of all the rights and lefts he'd taken by the time he caught sight of his target. The not-man seemed to sense he was closing in and had ducked into an empty warehouse through a backdoor, but Dean had been quick enough to spot him, and had followed the killer inside.

The warehouse had been totally abandoned, only a few crates and some small machinery left behind. The not-man was hiding somewhere out of sight, but Dean had been able to sense it, _scent_ it, even. There was a distinct smell about the not-man, a mix of old blood, motor oil, and something oddly metallic like rust. It had drawn Dean forward towards a pile of rotting, wooden boxes, and just as he'd been about to move round the side, the not-man had leapt out first, throwing punches haphazardly in every direction.

Dean had kept up the best he could, managing to land a few punches but not nearly enough to have slowed the thing down. After taking one particularly heavy hit to the stomach, Dean had found himself careening backwards into a wall. In glancing to the side he'd seen a faded red box attached to the wall, and he'd scrambled over to it, immediately thrusting his elbow through the protective glass and pulling out the tarnished axe hanging there.

He'd come out swinging then, more confident once he'd armed himself with a weapon that might finally be of use. The not-man had reared back, wary of the axe, but Dean had advanced on it quickly, continually wielding the weapon back and forth. They'd danced around each other for several moments before the not-man had tried to strike again. And that time Dean had been ready for it.

With one fell swoop he'd lopped the not-man's head clear from its body, the torso and limbs tumbling to the ground with a dead-sounding _thump_. Black-coloured blood had sprayed onto the concrete floor, flowing thickly from the remains and filling the area with the stench of rusted metal and rotting flesh. Dean had no idea how long he'd stood there for, just staring at the decapitated body, the axe still gripped limply in his right hand. It had felt like forever, yet at the same time it had felt like no time at all.

Eventually other cops and forensics people had swarmed on the scene, photographing everything and prying the axe from his hand. Captain Singer had been the one to finally escort him from the warehouse, slinging an arm over his shoulder to direct him back through the alleys to his and Benny's car. He'd been about to ask after Benny's wellbeing when he'd spotted the medical examiner's van across the way. Even as everyone had passed by with their too-easy back-pats of mixed congratulations and condolences, Dean had felt something die off inside himself, an unfamiliar, but blinding hot rage rising up to take over the empty space.

The Captain had subsequently ordered him off duty for no less than a month, which Dean had spent the majority of in a haze of alcohol, cigarettes and Italian take-out. He'd returned to the office to a wave of melancholy applause from his peers, medal commendations in both his and Benny's name having been left in the centre of his desk. The Captain had then called him to his office and introduced him to a man known only as Rufus, who in turn had offered Dean a chance to 'move up' in the world.

Apparently there'd been a bunch of other superiors from other law and government-related agencies who'd been impressed with his and Benny's work and wanted him for their own respective teams. But Dean had (through Captain Singer) told them all to go fuck themselves, _with all due respect_. No doubt the Captain had rephrased his refusals with a more restrained manner.

It wasn't until he'd been back on the job for a week that he'd been informed of the Shadow Slasher's body having somehow vanished from the coroner's office before they'd even started on an autopsy. According to the reports, nearly the whole precinct had been in on the job of finding the body and/or who'd taken it, but they'd come up empty from every angle. Even the security feeds of the coroner's office had come up blank.

For Dean, that had been the last straw.

Thankfully the Captain hadn't pushed a new partner on him straight away, and he'd been allowed to patrol on his own for several weeks at the start. In that time Dean had established some new procedures for himself, starting with carrying a knife with him at all times, concealed either in his boots or down the side of his pants, wedged under his utility belt. He was also a slight bit more negligent toward his usual beat-cop protocols, and was somehow even more of an ass towards his peers than normal. The Captain had side-eyed him on more than one occasion, but considering Dean's stupidly good track record for catching the bad guys, he'd let Dean off with little more than a warning.

The time on his own had also allowed him a chance to investigate a hunch he'd developed while he'd been lounging around in his apartment in a four-week-long drunken stupor. It had seemed an impossible conclusion at first, but the more alcohol he'd imbibed, the more it became a viable solution. It may have taken a while to confirm his suspicions, but once he had, it was like the crack in the dam that turned from a drip to a torrent.

The not-man hadn't been a lone anomaly. The not-man had been just one of some kind of mutated species that fed on blood and human flesh.

The more Dean had gone out patrolling - _hunting_ \- on his own, the more he got a feel for how these unknown beasts moved around the city, and when and where they preferred to go snacking. It had taken him a whole six weeks to fall upon the first one, which had been about to start feasting on a man still in the throes of dying from a stab wound. Dean had called for help for the victim and taken off running after the creature, but lost it amongst the myriad of dank, urine-stained alleyways.

That hadn't been the last he saw of the things by a long shot. Eventually he started coming upon them nearly every night, always either about to feed or still in the process of stalking their dinner. It'd occurred to him then that after he'd decapitated the first one all those weeks ago no more bodies had been found. Thus he'd hypothesised that these creatures had somehow taken to 'cleaning up' once they were done.

That single notion had led Dean to think that perhaps there was someone or some _thing_ behind the appearance of these creatures. Dean had kept an eye out for clues after that, though admittedly he hadn't pursued that avenue of thought quite as diligently as he pursued the beasts themselves. He'd quickly developed a delight in the killing of them, freely spilling their black-as-oil blood, and disposing of the remains for certainty's sake – in an old incinerator he'd discovered in an abandoned factory down by the docks. He'd gotten into a rhythm of it, as it were, and something about the whole process felt inexplicably _right_ in a way he couldn't explain. So even when the Captain had started offloading rookies onto him as temporary partners, he still made time after his shift ended at 3am to go do a little hunting.

Here and now with Garth, though, it was still early (by his standards) and they had official police business to tend to before he could go out playing mutant-killing vigilante. More and more it crossed his mind whether there were other people out there who knew about the not-men, and even more so if there were others out there who hunted them.

Of course, he knew for certain that there were _some_ people who knew of the creatures, but smack-junkies weren't exactly what one might call credible witnesses. Unless you were Dean, that is. There were two particular guys he was 'friendly' with, both of whom were nearly impossible to locate at any given time since they moved around so much. But in their chaotic back-and-forthing across the city, Ash and Balty saw all manner of weird and wonderful things. Their appearances were so scrappy and their brains so chemically fried that no one felt threatened by them in the least, but if you knew the right questions to ask and how to interpret their seemingly-nonsensical answers, you could find out just about anything.

It was only because of them that he and Benny had collected so much info on the Shadow Slasher case all those months ago. And the two were always more than happy to help, especially when Dean brought them 'treats' in the form of cigarettes or cans of beer.

"We just gonna sit here all night? Not that I mind…"

Pulled from his thoughts, Dean found Garth looking up at him from inside the car, a half-eaten donut in his hand – so much for stereotypes.

"Why? You bored already, kiddywinks?"

Dean smirked when the kid made a face, and moved to get back in the driver's seat. He'd actually been waiting for one of his informants to show, but he figured she must have scored a john and was off working somewhere. It wasn't a big deal though; he could circle back around later on to see if she was there.

Besides, if they got busy, the quicker the time would pass and the sooner he could be free of Garth and head off hunting. He usually made it home by around 7 in the morning, when he'd sneak into his apartment building through the basement door and pass out with exhaustion the moment he'd kicked off his boots and landed on the bed.

Some would probably think that he worked too hard, crashing out like he did – and that wasn't to say that he didn't work hard, because when he had a job to do no one busted their ass to get it done quite the way Dean did. But the way daylight hours seemed to sap his energy, Dean maintained that he simply had some kind of aversion to the sun in general. Maybe a freaky allergy or something. It had always been that way, even growing up.

In recent years though, since he continuously worked nights and slept days, his reaction was even more pronounced. He'd ultimately transformed himself into a wholly nocturnal animal, so much so that even entering into the bright lights of the precinct was occasionally bothersome for his eyes. Sometimes he questioned whether he honestly might have some sort of medical condition, but he always settled on the conclusion that he'd just unintentionally conditioned himself over time – Pavlov's dog eat your heart out.

Not that there was anyone around to complain about any of it. He'd had minimal contact with people outside the force to begin with, but after Benny had died he'd completely shut himself off from general social outings. He still ventured out to pick up once in a while, but the odd one-night-stand was as far as it got. It was just one more thing on the list of 'parts of Dean that are fubared now that Benny's gone'.

He clenched his teeth and beat his hand against the steering wheel as he turned over the engine, abruptly pulling the car away from the curb. Garth squeaked at his side, gripping the door handle for dear life, and just that small thing was enough to lessen the tension of his jaw, pulling his lips into a half-smile. Seeing how many ways he could freak the kid out was well becoming something of a little game to Dean – and that, at least, was a small spark of pleasure in his day.

 

+||+||+||+||+

 

Pulling off his boots, Sam collapsed down on the edge of his bed with a tired groan. He was almost too weary to peel his leathers off, but he knew he’d regret it later if he didn’t. So he let his jacket slip from his shoulders onto the sheets, then unclipped the straps that criss-crossed over his chest to hold his daggers and throwing knives close to his body. They fell heavily on top of his jacket, the metal clinking together as the weapons landed atop one another – thankfully he'd already wiped them off, so at least he wouldn't have to worry about cleaning them later on. He then unbuckled his pants and struggled to push them all the way down, hissing as he had to bend past his knees, before kicking them the rest of the way off and onto the carpeted floor. Next came the hard part.

Taking a deep breath he plucked at the hem of his black t-shirt with gloved fingers, tugging up the soggy fabric until it caught under his armpits. He winced as he looked down. The right side of his torso looked like a five year old had taken a hack at him with a butcher’s knife. He had one long cut from the side of his nipple all the way down to the waistband of his pants; there was a second slicing across it from his sternum to the outer edge of his ribs, and another dozen shallow gashes in various locations in-between.

Luckily most of them hadn't bled all that much and the smaller wounds were already started to scab a bit, but he was still going to have to clean them up and play doctor - the two longer gashes were gonna hurt like a bitch later on. Steeling himself with another deep breath, he pulled the t-shirt up over his head and threw it in the general direction of his garbage bin, groaning when the sudden stretch re-opened a section of one of the wounds, a small drop of blood welling up on the surface and skimming down his stomach until it soaked into the elastic of his boxers.

He supposed he could still pay a visit to the Fount. It had been about three weeks since Sam had last fed from him, and just a small mouthful of the Fount’s pure blood would have him completely healed and restored in no time. Of course, that would also mean exposing the fact that he got hurt. Samandriel might have been an unreasonably nice guy and a good listener, but when it came to the Flock Superior he could never quite manage keep his mouth shut. And if their Superior found out he’d been injured and then not said anything… Well, being temporarily suspended from patrols would be the least of his problems.

Sam remembered the last time he’d not said anything about his troubles and then been found out. He had disturbing dreams often enough, had done since childhood, but every now and then they became increasingly more frequent and vivid until he just didn't sleep at all. _Couldn't_ , in fact. And while being a Wingman for the Flock afforded him such capabilities as being able to go without adequate rest for an extended period of time, eventually there came a point where he either had to bend to his body's needs, or break. A few years back it had been the latter, and he'd nearly gotten himself killed for being so fucking stupid as to go out hunting without all his faculties in check.

Their Superior had retracted him from patrol duties for six months while he recovered and got a hold over his sleeping issues. Though, the cabin fever had nearly driven him mad all on its own. He supposed that now, at least, he had a better grasp of where his limits were, and when he needed to say the word and throw in the towel. He'd eventually reached the conclusion that he could only be all the better for knowing it.

As for earlier that night, he’d been out patrolling with Raphael, scouring the streets down by the harbour where they often found Hellions skulking about. The creatures had nests dotted all over the city, but finding them was nigh on impossible. They were like cockroaches – foul, sneaky little bastards that hid right under your nose.

Their hunt had started off slowly as it often did. Hours spent getting familiar with the microscopic variances between one back alley and the next. And despite the necessity for being alert and at the ready at all times, it did afford Sam quite a lot of time to think – something which he'd always done with great fervour. His most persistent observation of late was that the Hellions seemed to be more few and far between than he would otherwise expect. He hadn't mentioned it to any of his brothers, nor had any of them brought it up (if they'd even noticed such a thing), but Sam _had_ noticed. It had become a frequent occurrence in recent weeks, that they would return to their shared home without the tell-tale spatter of oily blood on their boots and weapons, or their preferred leatherwear all torn to shreds by sharp talons.

Sam didn't know what to make of it, even several months after the thought had first crossed his mind. Should they be pleased that maybe their arduous patrolling was finally showing signs of paying off? Or should they be all the more worried that the Hellions were perhaps getting smarter, and hiding away until some devious plan of theirs came to fruition?

Now _that_ particular thought made Sam's head throb forebodingly. He dropped his head into his hands just as harsh flashes of light and loud images like those of his dreams flickered before his eyes for a moment, before swiftly melting away. It was the second time that week he'd experienced a vision during waking hours, but still whatever he was being shown was too chaotic for him to make much sense of it.

He could always try to tell his brothers of his worries, but it was unlikely they would pay much attention. Michael in particular was ripe for always laughing at his 'feelings', often telling him that if he wished for something hard enough, he was sure it would come true! Raphael wasn't quite as provocative toward Sam, he was more the sort to 'tolerate in silence'. Of course, that hadn't stopped them splitting up as soon as they'd reached the harbour earlier – their chosen hunting ground for the evening. He knew for a fact that not all the Flock split up when they were out hunting, most of them always seemed to stay in their pairs, or such was Sam's impression whenever he heard them talking about it. He had to wonder if he was being paranoid, or whether he was in some kind of denial state and it was just _him_ that they didn't stick around with.

Regardless, once Sam had caught sight of his first Hellion pair of the night and chased them down, he'd engaged them in fight without hesitation – as was expected of him. In his over-zealous need to end them he'd gotten sloppy, allowing one of them to get a hand inside his jacket and grasp after his throwing knives. Sam had kneed it back, but in the process the thing had somehow gotten itself caught on his chest harness and ended up with its claws buried in Sam's side. At first it had freaked, pulling and pushing to try and get itself free, but in hearing Sam's grunts of discomfort it had changed its mind and decided that being stuck was fun.

The creature had still been caught in the straps when its body – sans head – had slumped to the ground, the exposed stump of its neck spurting jets of black blood into the air.

Raphael hadn't shown himself until a handful of minutes later, when Sam had been crouching on the ground in rest, the amply dismembered bodies of two Hellions scattered around him, still leaking blood. Sam had given no indication he was hurt despite being hunched on the ground, and Raphael had made no move to help him up. He'd waited until the older Wingman had turned and headed off before he'd struggled to his feet, gathering the body parts into garbage bags he'd pilfered from nearby bins before dumping them down into the water. One of the plus sides of patrolling by the harbour – easy clean up.

Now though, Sam had to think about cleaning himself up.

After a quick shower to wash the dried blood and grime away, Sam stood in front of the bathroom mirror and inspected the entirely too-visible gashes on his torso, the two largest ones still sluggishly oozing blood. He estimated there'd be at least three scars among them to add to his collection – if he took no sustenance from the Fount and let the wounds heal on their own, he would scar in the same way a human would. That thought had him staring between the two points of his right eye and left hand, both currently exposed thanks to his slicked-back hair and lack of gloves.

Each area was patterned with dozens of thin criss-crossing lines, which looked not unlike that of a spider's web. Over his eye it continued all the way up to his hairline and then some, and it pinched the side of his eyelid in a way that it pulled a little every time he blinked. Thankfully his vision had remained adequate, but the odd shape of his eyelid sometimes irritated the surface and made it look like he hadn't slept for a week.

As for his hand, it was a bit of an anomaly. It was bad enough that the skin was so raised and puckered that it looked like the whole surface had been burned off, but ever since he'd been cursed to be this way, any person or thing he touched was at risk of dying a horrible and instantaneous death. It had taken the unfortunate demise of five people, plus the loss of several items of furniture and a dozen knives, before he figured out what the problem was and how to combat it. And since then he'd not once removed his left glove in the presence of other people. The fear and repulsion was simply too much for him to handle, even all these years later.

Thankfully, his hand never seemed to bring any harm upon himself. So as he retrieved the small first aid kit he kept under the sink and prepared items enough for him to stitch up his wounds, the only things he had to worry about were pointing the needle in the right direction and tying the thread up neatly.

He'd given himself nearly two dozen stitches by the time he was satisfied, and he could already feel the bruises blossoming around the edges of the cuts – goddamn Hellions and their vicious claws.

Sam took himself to bed without bothering to head down to the kitchen in search of any food or drink. Were he to run into anyone there would have been questions – he knew he looked like crap by now, and there was no way any of his brothers wouldn't notice. But if he stayed out of the way, it was less likely anyone would come looking.

The pained expression on his face and the hunched posture of his body were dead giveaways. He would have to sleep it off.

 

 

 

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	2. Chapter 2

He was down at the docks again. It was hazy out – the blanket of mist floating atop the water kept spilling over onto the concrete slab where he stood, curling around his ankles.

There was a cold breeze blowing, whistling through the air and kicking up his shoulder-length hair, exposing his face to the empty surroundings. Though, not entirely empty, not in the sense that there was nothing to see. Metal structures leered down at him from nearly every direction – shipping containers, cranes, lighting rigs, steel cables, scaffolding. Most of it creaked as it stood fast against the wind, all of it peeling and pitted with rust.

The clang of steel against steel echoed from somewhere to his right, and Sam reflexively reached towards the knives hidden beneath his trench coat. He waited, completely still, for several long moments, but even when nothing approached he didn't allow himself to relax. Keeping his breathing steady he moved stealthily through the maze of containers, wary of the shadows that obscured his path.

When he came to an open clearing Sam found himself faced with a strange sight. Metal scraps and shavings had spilled from an open crate, crusting the otherwise smooth ground. Barred cages, like miniature jail cells, were stacked up high to one side, one of them even hung from the arm of a crane, a thick chain connecting to the top of the cage, swinging it to-and-fro up twenty feet in the air. Something about the whole setup felt disturbingly familiar. It almost looked exactly like…

The clash of metal sounded again, throwing Sam completely from his thoughts. He was close enough to pinpoint the origin this time – it had come from inside one of the containers. Bounding to the edge of it he found the doorway locked, and something snapped viciously at his fingers the moment he laid his hand on the lever, as if it were electrically charged. Taking a step back he attempted to kick it in instead. The door rattled loosely with each hit, yet it didn't budge from its hinges. He had to get in there, he just _had to_.

Anxiety welled up inside him, though there was no reason why it might be so. He was only chasing Hellions, wasn't he? Except something about that thought didn't sit right, his instincts rebelling against his usual mission statement as a Wingman on patrol.

Something rattled inside the shipping container and Sam's heart leaped in his chest.

"I'm coming!"

He had no idea why he said it, only that he knew it needed to be said. The fact that he got any kind of response was the most startling thing of all.

"Sam!"

A beat passed – a beat of complete stillness and silence. Even the wind dropped away for that one moment.

And then it all came rushing back like a tidal wave, pushing him forth, throwing him against the door with double the strength.

It caved after three more attempts, the lever falling to the ground and the door itself swinging inward so swiftly it sent Sam careening forward off his balance, the bulk of his body impelling him hard onto the floor. A grunt of pain was pushed from his mouth as he landed, hot pain exploding up his right side, like thousands of little needles tearing through his clothes and into his skin. There was a single light bulb hanging overhead, and as his vision adjusted Sam could see that he hadn't been far off – carpeting the floor were yet more metal shavings, intermittently scattered with other nails and screws and bolts that glinted threateningly under the dim light.

He held himself impossibly still as he raised his head up, trying to comprehend what it was he was seeing. Sam knew something about the voice which had called his name had sounded 'off', but never would he have imagined it was because the voice belonged to a _child_.

The boy was dressed in worn, dirty clothes and couldn't have been more than five or six, though Sam still could have been wrong – the fair skin of the side of his face was all that Sam could make out, whilst everything besides was hidden in darkness. He was pushing against rickety iron bars, like those of the cages that had been outside. He held something sharp in one hand, like a knife or a sliver of scrap metal, and he seemed to be pushing it through to the other side of the bars, desperate to stretch it as far out as he was able.

Just when Sam thought things couldn't get much stranger, a second boy appeared out of the shadows. Younger this time, barely more than a toddler, and dressed in rags. The younger boy stumbled towards the older one, tears streaming down his face, but some kind of force seemed to be holding him back. No matter how quickly his legs tried to run, he didn't appear to be gaining any ground.

Sam reached forward from where he still lay on the treacherous ground, as if his arm could touch them from all the way across the other side of the container. The light bulb up above flickered several times, and the younger boy screamed. In a last ditch effort, the two boys pushed toward one another, but in the very moment they finally touched, the light bulb exploded and the shipping container as a whole gave a sickening lurch to one side.

The unmistakable roaring of Hellions rose up from back the way Sam had come from, but as the noise grew louder, so did the surface Sam was lying on grow more unstable. Swallowing back the pain, Sam forced himself to his feet, staggering across the floor of the container, only to find no sign of the two boys, nor of the bars that had separated them.

He glanced over to the door through which he'd entered, only to find that there was no longer any door at all. The ground shook beneath him and suddenly Sam was sliding downward on his feet - _sinking_ into a small sea of corroding shrapnel. It had risen to his waist by the time the container had flipped itself completely onto its side, and Sam felt the distinct sensation of falling through mid-air before water began pouring from the roof's unsealed edges.

The fabric of his coat caught him up in something from down below, and the more he pulled, the more intently it dragged him down. He turned quickly and the water swirled away, the hard wall rising up to meet him and thumping him hard on the temple.

When Sam came to, he found himself slumped on the bathroom floor, one arm clenched tightly around the toilet bowl.

Groaning, he reached up to flush it. He had no need to check for any confirmation – he had all the proof he needed in the sour acidic taste coating his mouth. Sam had no recollection of either leaving the bed or coming into the bathroom, but it wouldn't have been the first time his dreams had been so intense that they'd spilled into reality.

A chill rocked his body, settling deep into his bones. Something big was coming – and soon. But who could he tell? What could he tell them?

He stretched out on the tiled floor and held his hands up to his face, inspecting them closely. All along the underside of his right arm were dozens of tiny divots speckled with blood, as if he'd been leaning against something sharp.

 

Just another night, just another hunt - that’s what Sam kept telling himself.

Except that it wasn’t, not exactly. Michael and Gabriel had been out patrolling the city’s downtown the night before, and had come across a group of four Hellions travelling together. As if that hadn’t been surprising enough, while two of the beasts were of the usual sort, the other two had been what they called High Hellions - twice as strong, twice as fast and even more in need of a breath mint.

Thinking fast, Mike and Gabe had decided to follow rather than fight, and had tracked the group to a hidden basement door beneath a busy Chinese restaurant. They’d settled in and kept watch for the rest of the night, noting the comings and goings of about twenty lesser Hellions and another four High Hellions from the place, with no doubt more inside.

The two Wingmen had been teeming with enthusiasm when they'd returned home at dawn - they’d finally found another nest.

So there they were, all six of the Flock out in full force, chomping at the bit to spill some black monster blood. Although, admittedly, Sam maybe wasn’t quite as enthused about it as his brothers. Sure he was happy to cut down leagues Hellions any day of the week, that went without saying, but his dreams of late had become increasingly ominous, they warned of nightmares made real. He'd been on tenterhooks all day, just waiting for that one sign which would set a chain of events in motion – events which he had already _seen_ , whole days before the fact.

Castiel had noticed his disquiet, had even brought it up when they'd been in front of the rest of the Flock which was unusual in itself. But even when he'd expressed his concerns, told them he'd dreamed of a coming disaster… Well, since when had his brothers ever believed in him? The Superior had once told Sam that it was their way, an inherent trait that would require more than blood if there was ever hope of it changing. Of course, the Superior had also said that they avoided Sam because they feared him, which was probably the most ridiculous thing Sam had ever heard. He'd laughed at the time, but the Superior had chided him, assuring Sam that the day would come when his brothers would listen.

Sam often looked back on that memory, knowing that the Superior was rarely wrong and hardly ever offered wisdom for no reason. Though perhaps that particular message was one he wasn't ready to take on just yet. In the here and now it didn’t matter much anyway. There was a Hellion nest to blow up, after all.

Currently he was skulking about on his own, but he could sense Castiel only a street or two away, standing patient and unmoving in wait. Raphael was nearby, too, pacing as usual – somehow even his mental presence was irritating, and Sam made a point of shutting him out lest he lose his own concentration.

There was a whole lot of waiting and mental signals being thrown back and forth, but naturally it was Gabe who set things off in the end – he was always the one for being too partial to ostentation. The Wingman sent out a brief mental indicator before detonating whatever Hellion-geared concoction he'd come up with, no doubt laced with shrapnel and extra flame for good measure. All Sam really felt was a dull thud under his feet and a second or two of deep vibration floating up from underground. In the distance he could hear the faint sound of Hellions shrieking, and then suddenly several fire alarms went off.

The explosive Gabe had set off wouldn't have triggered such a thing, so likely one of the other Flock had triggered the alarms on purpose, probably to get any remaining civilians out of the area and to make sure the restaurant on top of their nest was clear. A commotion came from somewhere nearby but he lost track of it when emergency sirens started moving in close. Gabriel and whoever else was still near to the nest was going to have to get the hell out double-time – the last thing they needed in the middle of their mission was the cops' attention.

Minutes passed and the sirens dissipated – it was possible Michael had intervened with a little mind trickery to get the humans out of the way, but from where Sam was standing there was no way to know for sure. Castiel was still in the exact same position as he had been half an hour ago, and someone else's presence had moved into his periphery, though not close enough that he could tell who it was – which made him think it was Uriel, who had the strongest mental barriers amongst the Flock.

Still, they kept waiting.

Another fifteen minutes went by before he finally felt it – the movement of High Hellions. There was something in their makeup that any Flock could sense instinctively without even having them in their sights. Sam could pick at least four of them, which meant that there was likely to be at least four times that quantity of the lesser creatures, and it occurred to him that the beasts had somehow had the wisdom to stay put until the civilians were out of the way before fleeing their hideout. The mind boggled. Hellions were meant to be stupid and disorganised. Were they evolving, perhaps? Had someone – some _thing_ \- really taken charge over them as he'd feared?

Sam tensed when he heard the approaching crunch of gravel underfoot, and he shifted his trivial thoughts out of the way, focusing only on the battle at hand. Despite the 'bomb' Gabriel had set off, the aim of the exercise wasn't necessarily to obliterate them all (though whatever ended up dead because of it was a bonus), rather it was to smoke their prey out into the open where the Flock could go apeshit on their oily asses. Michael had said to be prepared for the stampede, and Sam got the feeling his brother wasn't so far off the mark. It was expected that some would get away – their numbers were such that it was inevitable – but they were to kill as many as 'humanly' possible, especially the High Hellions who were more likely to brave the main streets and come into contact with the general population.

Sam stopped in his tracks when he got his first glimpse of the stream of Hellions heading his way, but he quickly kicked himself into annihilation mode and flipped his daggers smoothly in his gloved hands.

The Hellions came at him with grins on their monstrous faces, and Sam grinned straight back at their ugly mugs. The fight was hard and brutal from the get-go, but Sam was on point as always, never missing a beat. This was what he was made for, after all. It's what he was _born_ for. So long as his troublesome thoughts weren't in the way, he was arguably the most natural yet ferocious slayer among any of his brothers, irrespective of his being the youngest. The blades felt light and effortless, but sturdy in his palms, and he whipped them through flesh and bone as easy as a hot knife through butter. He ducked and twisted with ease, boots kicking out just as quickly as his arms slashed down and across, taking heads and spilling innards at every direction.

He had no idea how long he continued for, fighting fiercely with every strike of his limbs, but eventually the onslaught lessened to a trickle, until all the Hellions in his sights were nought but piles of black-splattered limbs on the ground. He could sense at least three more of his brothers fighting nearby – Castiel was managing, but the other two were struggling, and Sam decided that once the Hellions coming his way had gotten a good look at him, they'd started taking alternative routes away from the nest.

Not content in the least, Sam moved through the maze of alleys and streets, spotting what looked like a lone group of four – two lesser beasts and two Highs – making a run for it, away from the masses of others that his brothers were still contending with. Staying quiet he stalked after them, knowing that they must be up to something. He had no idea how, but he managed to lose sight of them after a few blocks'-worth of chasing, ducking from street to street to see if he could pick up their trail again.  
He was about to give it up and head back into the throng when a sound pricked his ears, and he stuck his head around the side of an apartment building just in time to see all four of the Hellions taking off in pursuit of what looked like a civilian in a dark-coloured uniform.

The sight had Sam freezing in his tracks. Was he seeing things? Hellions did not just run onto a lamp-lit street where normal people were hanging around, and certainly not while they were in a group like that. Shaking off his surprise Sam took off at a run, realising now that he'd let them make considerable headway on him – he just hoped that civilian had some half-decent survival skills.

Once he jogged through several more alleys and came into an open laneway, it appeared that he shouldn't have worried so much. The man, whoever the fuck he was, had turned on his pursuers and was fighting them. With _twin blades_. Just like a warrior from the Flock would.

Sam retreated a few steps so he was hidden by the shadow of a building, and he looked on in awe as the human moved, smooth but hard, aggressive but efficient, and he slayed the two lesser Hellions with practiced ease. Sam could see that something in the man's stance changed though, once he turned to face the two Highs. Sam swallowed. The guy had never seen High Hellions before, apparently.

The Highs approached and the ensuing combat was brutal. The Hellions didn't get away unscathed, but it was clear they had the upper hand in this fight. The man battled on valiantly despite his growing list of injuries, and Sam had to admit, this guy was pretty impressive for a human. The man started to labour, his strikes getting slower and losing strength, but just when Sam had been about to give up on him, the man somehow got one of the Highs on the ground and practically sliced him open lengthways.

The kill didn't come without its consequences, though. Even without his enhanced senses he would have heard the cry of pure, unadulterated agony that was wrenched from the man as the dying Hellion all but tore his arm from its socket. That was the damage that finally brought the man's assault to its end, and the remaining High knew it, too.

Sam watched with wavering restraint as the Hellion moved to sit on top of the man, its mouth twisted into a gruesome smile as it raised its hand, preparing to gouge the man's chest with its talons. As a Wingman, Sam had rules he was supposed to follow – very explicit rules – one of which was to never leave a human witness behind. Whether you wiped their memory or outright killed them, it didn't matter, so long as the rule was adhered to. But while he was moderately adept at short-term memory wipes, Sam knew without thinking that to try such a thing on this man would be futile. He'd clearly been familiar with the sight of Hellions for some time, so there was no way Sam could erase so many memories in one go – and even if he could, it'd probably fuck with the guy's mental capacity beyond repair.

Despite the possible repercussions, Sam still wanted to save this guy. And yet, he honestly had no idea why he was still rooted to the spot, watching idly by as the High Hellion began stabbing the man with his claws. There was nothing physically stopping him, none of his brothers were anywhere close by, and the man wasn't beyond saving if he could get medical help straight away.

The thought crossed Sam's mind whether or not the man would know what he was if he saw him. He already knew of lesser Hellions, that was clear, yet not of High Hellions. Did that mean he would know nothing of the Flock either? It was likely, since they took such care to stay out of sight of humans, but the fact that the man had used twin blades and had known how to use them… it was uncanny.

Something gurgled in the man's throat and Sam found himself shaken back to the present. The man was fading – this was Sam's last chance to get to him before he was too far gone to be helped. Except… something _was_ holding him back this time. Something from his unconscious mind. There was this little niggling feeling that he'd seen this moment before, and that he couldn't interfere with what was about to happen. He rifled through what could recall of his recent dreams, but nothing spoke overtly to this particular moment. So if there _was_ something there, nudging at his instincts, it was obscure and half-buried.

Troubled, Sam didn't want the man to die, he even muttered the words under his breath for all the good it would do. But he knew that if it was his fate to let the inevitable happen, then there was nothing to be done. Occasionally events simply had to play out as they were intended, despite whatever warnings Sam may have been given via his dreams. Yes, oftentimes, reality was totally fucked.

And yet.

The inevitable did not happen. No, what happened next was something Sam could never have imagined.

He looked on in sheer horrid fascination as the man seemed to choke, his chest seizing and arching up away from the ground he was lying on. And then something… _other_ took over his body, slipping into his skin like an old suit, possessing him in mind and body. Sam could see it as clear as day, yet he couldn't explain how, since there was nothing _to_ see. No shadowy figures or strange light or any of the other anomalies he'd witnessed before.

Whatever it was inside the man took full control of him, flexing his arms regardless of their injury, and using them to break free of the Hellion's hold. The man's hands settled themselves around the High Hellion's throat and squeezed, as easily as if he were squeezing a sponge. The Hellion's body went stiff as a board and the man appeared to choke again, struggling with himself rather than the creature in his hold.

Sam couldn't look away, his eyes glued to the scene before him. His body, however, seemed to be doing its own thing. He realised he was cradling his right arm against his body, his left hand curled around it, gloved fingertips tracing over the underside of his jacket sleeve. The skin beneath was practically healed already, but still there remained a cluster of tiny scabs the size of needle points.

The man groaned and forced the Hellion's face in close. Sam didn't know how he could tolerate the stench, but the human didn't seem fazed. Rather, the man pulled the creature as close as a few inches away, exhaled all the air from his lungs and then began to breathe in again – a long, _deep_ breath.

The action made Sam shudder in his boots. But not as much as he shuddered when a thing stream of… _something_ started trickling out of the Hellion's mouth. It grew and expanded until this cloud of darkness, black as the shadows, seemed to tear itself out of the creature's body. As if that weren't terrifying enough, the man then began to _eat_ it, sucking the blackness into himself, and in and in at growing speed.

The moment the cloud had completely disappeared, the whole scene collapsed. The Hellion tumbled to the ground like a rag doll, and the man lost any ounce of strength he had left, sinking into a paralysed stillness.

Sam knew he couldn't leave him there. Whatever had held him back finally let go and he dashed over to the man, crouching down at his side. Unbelievably, the man was still conscious, and for the briefest of seconds Sam felt their eyes connect.

Something became clear then – this man carried a burdensome gift. Sam didn't understand anything more than that, but it was enough that he knew what had to be done. He couldn't let this man die.

Reaching out tentatively, Sam touched the man's face. Even through his gloves the onslaught of sounds and images that hit him all at once was enough to throw Sam's hand back as if he'd been punched in the wrist. None of what he'd seen made any sense – it was too chaotic and disconnected for one thing – but enough pain and desperation was forced through that Sam caught onto it firmly.

This time he grabbed onto the man's arm and didn't let go.

"I'm here brother."

The words slipped unbidden from Sam's lips. He wasn't sure where they'd come from, but at the same time he knew them to be true.

This man was his brother.

"Sam."

His head snapped up at the sound of his name, only to find all of his five brothers looking on from different points around the alley. They were all in various states of wellbeing – most of them showing signs of injury, and all of them splattered liberally with Hellion blood. None of them, however, looked particularly pleased by his current situation.

"You wouldn't be worried over a filthy human now, would you, Sam?" Uriel practically spat the words.

"Maybe he made a friend," Michael taunted, "Did you make a friend, Sammy?"

"You didn't see what this man did." The words barely made it past his lips, but there was no way his brothers didn't hear them.

Castiel inched forward. "Did this man save you?"

Sam shook his head, looking back down at the unconscious man. There was something about him that… "Do you not feel it?"

"Feel what?"

"Aw, you like him! Don't you, Sammy?"

"His feelings are irrelevant," Uriel piped up again, "The human obviously saw something. Just knife him now and be done with it."

Raphael shifted on his feet. "It's not worth the effort. Just look at the poor worm, he'll be dead soon either way."

"Maybe he should put him out of his misery then."

"I saw this man _fight_ them," Sam finally admitted, albeit through clenched teeth, "These Hellions on the ground here, I watched him take them down as well as any warrior."

There was an elongated silence before Michael finally broke it, snorting with laughter.

"Whatever you say, kiddo. You sure 'Mandriel didn't give you too much or something? Spike your breakfast maybe?"

Knowing he wasn't getting anywhere, Sam turned his back on the rest of the Flock and mentally blocked them all. If there was a sure-fire way to tell them to piss off without actually saying it, then that was it. He sensed a couple of them come up behind him, Castiel awkwardly patting his shoulder before backing off, then Gabriel crouched down beside him.

"You have to do this? Like, _have_ to, have to?"

Sam sighed. "Yeah."

"Right… Well, I'd offer you a ride if the van wasn't full of explosives and whatnot…"

"It's fine."

Gabe nodded and left with the others, and Sam waited for the sound of their footsteps on the asphalt to fade out into the night. Then he slipped his arms underneath the man and hauled him up against his chest – it was going to be a long walk back.

 

 

 

+||+||+||+||+

 

With the extra load, what was usually a thirty minute walk for Sam took near an hour, but finally he set foot on the grounds where he lived with his brothers, heaving a sigh of relief. He took the long way around to get to his room, taking precautions to avoid running into anyone, but soon enough he was stumbling into his bedroom, striding across to the bed itself where he placed his armful carefully onto the mattress.

He took a moment to breathe before straightening up and trying to stretch out the cramps in his arms and legs. He'd just carried a large, human male's body all the way from downtown back to the Flock compound which sat hidden on the very outskirts of the city. And that was after he'd already cut down what had to have been hundreds of Hellions earlier that night. So, yeah, he was feeling the fatigue of it all. He hadn't even stopped to take care of the bodies, but whenever they were on group assignment that job was usually left to Gabriel – he hoped his brother had taken care of the ones the man had killed as well.

Sam suspected the night was far from over, however, namely because of the foreign presence now bleeding out on his bed. The man had remained unconscious the whole trip home, and Sam had to be thankful for that – the last thing he needed was a confused, angry man demanding answers and accusing Sam of kidnapping him. Which, granted, wouldn't be too far off the mark, but he had good reason, right?

With the intention of checking his wounds, Sam sat himself down at the bedside, and unbuttoned the top part of the man's uniform shirt. His chest looked not unlike what Sam's had a couple of nights ago. The wounds were shallower in general, but there were significantly more of them and the blood loss just made it look even worse. Sam had been about to retrieve his medical kit from the bathroom when there was a familiar _tappity-tap_ at the door, a mop of mousy-blonde hair poking out from behind it a moment later.

"Sam? Sam! You…" Samandriel paused, his face going slack, finger pointing to the bed as if he'd seen a ghost. "The Flock, they… When they said that you… I thought they were joking."

"Not joking, as you can see," Sam admitted, "I know well enough that they're not happy about it. You came at the right time, though. I'm gonna need your help to clean him up and tend to his wounds."

Samandriel had already let himself into the room and shut the door behind him, but startled visibly once Sam mentioned 'wounds'.

"Sam, I- I don't-… This is-…"

"I remember you said once that no one would be denied your help if they asked for it. Well, consider this my plea."

Samandriel looked stricken. "But I was talking about _you_! You and your brothers! I would not exist if not to serve you – it's my purpose!"

"And this would be a great service to me," Sam said flatly, his lips pursed. "Go get your kit."

As the Fount dashed out to retrieve said kit, Sam heaved himself to his feet and shed his boots, jacket and chest harness. He would have to remember to wipe down his weapons later on, lest the Hellion blood tarnish the metal. He had other things to worry about at present, however, and he tugged up the hem of his shirt to inspect his self-doctored claw wounds. A couple of the stitches had popped during the night's proceedings, but it was nothing that couldn't be fixed. Of course, that didn't stop any of it from hurting like a motherfucker.

Groaning, he turned. Only to find Samandriel already returned with his med kit, his eyes wide having seen Sam's chest.

"Sam, you're injured."

He frowned at the Fount's statement of the absolute obvious and looked back to the mashed-up body on the bed. Yes, he'd reopened some stitches and was bleeding a tiny bit, but this human guy over here was fucking _dying_.

"I'm fine, alright? But as it happens, this man ain't."

Samandriel was clearly flustered by the situation, his shoulders rising up and his eyes starting to water. "Yes, Sam, but- just- I-… let me give you aid first, Sam. It's my duty!"

Sam rounded on the Fount, his face now drawn with aggravation. He appreciated that the Fount had an obligation towards the Flock above all else, but Sam had already given him an 'out', so now Samandriel's attentiveness was just getting ridiculous. "You will tend this man first, or I will not take from you."

The Fount's jaw moved, but no sound came out for several long moments. "Y- you-… You wouldn't do that, Sam! Your injuries… you must be in so much pain already! You must take from me so you can heal!"

" _Stop_." Sam growled from deep in his chest, "I got these gashes three nights ago. Yes, I tore some of the stitches tonight, and you can probably smell the blood and broken tissue, but like I said, I'm _fine_ and this guy is _not_ , you with me? He took down four Hellions on his own. He deserves our care."

Sufficiently cowed, Samandriel approached the bed with his kit. With shaky hands he opened the plastic case and began pulling out anything he might need – swabs, bandages, a needle and sterile thread, antibacterial ointment, and so on. He was just about to get started when he suddenly paused, turning to the Wingman.

"Sam, what kind of uniform is that?"

Sam smirked. "You should really watch more TV. You'd probably learn something."

"You know I don't like any of those electric things…"

"It's a police uniform. He's probably a beat cop."

The Fount held back a gasp, before nodding and proceeding to pull back the man's shirt, exposing the whole of his cut-up chest. He took a pair of scissors and began to cut the fabric until the shirt fell away completely; it was practically in shreds anyway. Sam noted that the man's left side was looking an unhealthy shade of purple, and he wondered what could be done – it looked like more than the dislocation he'd initially thought it to be.

Samandriel had towelled up most of the blood and was swabbing at some of the some of the deeper wounds when he stopped.

"I don't like this, Sam," the Fount's eyes were downcast, but Sam could tell he was being looked at all the same, "You've already tried to stitch yourself up – were you not going to come to me _at all_? You… you've already got plenty of scars. I wouldn't have thought you'd want any more."

The Fount wasn't usually so bold with his words, so Sam knew how serious his worry must have been. He felt bad for him in a way – it was his job to provide the Flock with nourishing blood, and even though he acted as a medic in the meantime, his blood was really the only reason he even existed. Samandriel had been created completely from scratch by the Superior, by human standards he hadn't even technically been born. So Sam knew it wasn't his fault that he needed so desperately to heal any physical wound he came across, just like it wasn't his fault that he didn't understand why Sam might want to keep a scar in the first place.

"I've grown to like them in a way," Sam said, slow and calm while he toyed with the worn seams of his gloves, "I wouldn't feel like me anymore if they suddenly disappeared. As for the new ones… I don't know. It's hard to explain, but I just _need_ them to be there."

Samandriel said nothing, continuing on with the task at hand. He was partway through his seventh stitch when he yelped and jumped back from the bed, Sam springing to his feet in alarm.

"What—"

"He moved!" the Fount exclaimed, "I think he's waking up!"

Approaching the bed, Sam waved Samandriel back in place, indicating that he keep stitching the man's injuries. The Fount was hesitant at first, but even as he resituated himself on the mattress the man made no further movements, resting on as Samandriel resumed the task at hand. Sam kept watch this time, and was thankful he did, as two more stitches later the man really did move, his chest expanding and his right arm rising up, grasping at the air. The man coughed briefly before letting his pain be known, a long, drawn out wail filling the room with its misery.

"Fuck… Fuck! You got any anaesthetic or anything?"

"No, why would I? Whenever I patch you guys up I have to use horse tranquilisers 'cause nothing else works!"

"Dammit!" Sam knelt on the bed, taking the man's shoulders in hand and forcing them eye-to-eye. He wasn't going to try pulling a memory wipe or anything, but he had managed to hypnotise a human once or twice before – perhaps he could get the guy to calm down a little, take his mind off the pain.

"Hey… hey, look at me!"

The man's eyes were barely open, their vision blurred by the obvious suffering he endured. The sound of Sam's voice stirred something in his awareness, though, and once a few more seconds passed the man was finally in control enough to actually look back at Sam with some cognizance.

"Shhh, hey. Just keep looking at me, alright?"

Sam kept his voice calm and even, urging the man to keep eye contact as he prodded the forefront of his consciousness, prompting it to feel soothed and clear rather than muddled with pain. Gradually the man's panicked breaths began to slow, Sam patting his shoulder with praise.

"Good, just like that… Welcome back, man. I'm glad you've decided to stick around."

The man attempted to clear his throat. "Wh- where—"

"My name's Sam. You're at my home. I saw you get injured and I brought you back here."

His nod was a positive sign – Sam hadn't been thrilled by the possibility of having to tell the guy how he'd gotten hurt.

"What's your name, huh?"

"Deh-… uh… Dean."

"Dean… Yeah, it suits you somehow. You remember what happened?"

The man started to nod but then stopped, staring at Sam blankly for a moment before the memory clicked.

"You called me brother."

Sam startled. After a brutal fight with four Hellions, that had been the last thing he'd thought Dean would remember.

"Uh, just a reflex, y'know?"

The way Dean grunted, Sam could tell he wasn't buying it. But now wasn't really the time to go into details.

"Wh- what hap'n t' mon- monsters?"

"The monsters?" Sam pondered how much to give away. He didn't want to stir up too much in case Dean started to panic again. "You got those Hellions good, man. Just a pity they got you, too."

Dean's face skewed with confusion. "Y'know wh- what they are?"

"You don't?" Now Sam was confused as well.

Dean was just about to speak again when Sam felt his connection slipping – he was losing consciousness again. Sam turned back to Samandriel who had a cloth pressed to Dean's abdomen. The longer he watched the deeper the shade of red the cloth became.

"Sam, I was gonna start stitching it and all I did was swab it clean, I swear!" The Fount was in hysterics – no doubt his arms would have been flailing through the air had they not been pressed the wound. "It just started pouring blood and, oh jeez, it's not clean blood, it must be coming from an organ or something! I can't fix that kind of thing, Sam. I'm not used to tending wounds that actually _keep bleeding_! He needs to go to a human hospital or he's gonna die!"

Taking a breath to calm his own anxiety, Sam realised there was only one way to get out of the situation with Dean intact. Only problem was, Dean may just end up hating him for it for eternity. That was, if he survived.

"Samandriel, I need to stay there a minute or two. Can you do that?"

"You're leaving me?!"

Without looking back Sam marched from the room, a singular destination in mind.

 

It was always pitch dark in the Summoning room, and now was no different. But Sam had come through there enough times that he knew precisely where he was going, and the moment he came to the central podium, a cylindrical beam of light spread down from an unknown source in the ceiling. Within the beam was a stone dish of pure white and a small blade no bigger than the length of a finger. Neither of the items actually sat _on_ anything however, as both hovered in mid-air, held there by yet another unknown force. Sam plucked the blade from its place and smoothly drew it across the palm of his hand. He clenched it into a fist and held it over the dish, waiting as the blood slowly dripped down.

Five drops was the going price. He counted them out before pulling his hand back. Had he fed recently, his regenerative abilities would’ve had the shallow cut almost fully healed already. But he was coming up to a month since he’d last taken from the Fount, and thus his strength was barely enough to stem the bleeding. It was likely the Superior would notice - would be able to smell the lingering damaged flesh - but once Sam got to the point of his visit... no doubt that would be more than enough of a distraction.

“Sam, Sam, Sam...”

The Wingman smiled into the darkness.

“You always know it’s me.”

“Well, your blood tastes a little different from the others. Its only right I should be able to recognise it.”

“You don’t sound surprised to see me.” And that was the truth. Sam often found the Superior to be irritable and quick to anger, more so if he was Summoned at an inopportune time.

The Superior hummed, the sound seeming to stem from nowhere and everywhere all at once. “A little birdy told me that you haven’t been feeding regularly. Naturally I’ve been concerned for your health. I can already tell how slowly that cut on your hand is healing… and you’ve bled from elsewhere recently. I smell old blood - maybe three days old?”

Sam pursed his lips. One day he was going to throttle Samandriel and he wasn’t going to feel a damn bit bad about it. “I’ve got it under control. It’s fine. And that’s not why I’m here.”

“It should be,” the Superior stated, his tone slightly harsh. “So, what _are_ you here about?”

Sam steeled himself. He had to be firm. And determined. He had to make the Superior see that he wasn’t saying this casually. “In all my years, have I ever asked you for anything? Have I ever come to you with selfish intentions?”

“Don’t waste my time, Sam.”

“I have a favour to ask. It’s... considerable. I’ll do-”

“Ah,” the Superior interrupted. A moment passed in silence, then he spoke again. “I’m guessing this is about the human in your bed.”

Gasping, Sam nearly choked on his own saliva. That the Superior had picked up on it so quickly... Really, he shouldn’t have been so surprised. The Superior’s powers were far beyond what any of the Flock could imagine.

“He’s dying.”

Sam nodded sadly. If he were to be honest, he’d known it from the moment he’d touched Dean’s face back in that alley. But whether it had been denial that had prompted him to bring the man home anyway, or if there’d been something deeper, if maybe he’d already known he would be coming to the Summoning room in desperation - who was to know?

“But... he’s not _just_ human.”

“No,” Sam breathed, “I think I knew it when I saw him fight. Something in him was calling to me. I can sense him in a way that... I don't know. I think I’ve been dreaming about him, too.”

A comforting hand came to rest on Sam’s shoulder.

“Then let us see what's to become of him.”

 

+||+||+||+||+

 


	3. [fic] Devil's Disciples || Sam/Dean, nc17 || Part 3

 

Sam made it back to his bedroom just in time to catch Samandriel’s pallid look of horror as the Superior flashed into the room in a snap of light. It was always a shock to see the Superior this way - not cloaked or enshrouded in darkness, but in the body of a relatively short human male with unkempt facial hair, and dressed in a flannel shirt and badly worn jeans. It was completely at odds with the image he projected in his other form. But Sam supposed that what with a human being involved, he probably didn’t want to freak the guy out.

Samandriel’s shock, however, was more likely due to the fact that Sam had actually had the balls to admit to the Superior that he’d brought an outsider onto the grounds. On top of that, that Sam had obviously asked for his help. And he’d _agreed_.

It was _unheard_ of.

“I- you- he... You-?”

“Samandriel, I wonder if you’d mind getting lost for a bit? …Preferably now?”

The Fount looked down at the blood-soaked towel he was pressing into Dean’s stomach, blubbering something about ‘plugging a leak’. The Superior merely waved it off.

“You think I can’t take care of a little bleeding? Now skedaddle!”

Samandriel was out like a shot. Sam didn’t think he’d ever seen the guy move that fast.

Now that it was just the three of them, Sam waited to see what the Superior would do. Could he really stop the bleeding? Maybe heal Dean completely? More importantly would he require something in return? Sam had seen his maker perform all manner of unexplainable acts - things some might call miracles - but perhaps it wasn’t so miraculous if you knew how it worked. For they weren’t so much ‘acts’ as ‘exchanges’ – to receive a wish one must offer a sacrifice as payment. Sam wondered if in order to heal Dean, it would be Dean who would have to make an offer in return. If not, Sam would gladly make the exchange himself, as he sensed that Dean had already given enough.

“Are you... going to stop the bleeding?”

The Superior tore his gaze away from the human and looked back to Sam.

“Not yet. It’s not of consequence right now. He’ll either die or he won’t."

Sam wanted to say something, wanted to get angry, but he knew it wouldn’t help. If anything it would only make the Superior more reluctant.

“When you said you’d been dreaming about him,” the Superior said, moving closer to the bedside, “I never actually thought that… Well, I guess even after so many years life can still surprise you.”

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, frowning in confusion.

The Superior merely smiled knowingly, and placed his hand over Dean's chest. Immediately a ripple moved through the man's body, and he came awake with a choked gasp. Sam could pinpoint the exact moment that the pain set in, Dean's face growing even paler against the powder-blue sheets, his breathing shallow and laboured. Perching himself on the edge of the mattress, the Superior moved his hand up so he was cradling the edge of Dean's face in his palm, forcing the man to look into his eyes.

"Look at me, Dean," the Superior said, his voice slow and clear, "The pain's not so bad now, is it?"

Dean shook his head. "How'd'you know—?"

"Sam's thoughts are about as loud as a foghorn right now – all I'm hearing is 'Dean Dean Dean'. It wasn't hard to put two and two together."

"Where—?"

"Sam?" The Superior inclined his head. "He's just there. He wants me to save you."

Dean paused while he processed that bit of information. "You can fix this?"

"That's to be determined. It's possible, but you're going to have to make a choice."

"I-… Who're you?"

The Superior sat back a bit, his shoulders lifting as he sighed. "The answer to that is kind of complicated, but you can call me Chuck."

Dean blinked. "Right… So, Chucky. What's this 'bout a choice?"

"I realise it's sudden, but you're going to need to decide your future. Right now your shoulder is shattered, you've got nerve damage, fractures, stab wounds, and you're bleeding into your gut."

"No wonder I feel like shit," Dean groaned.

"Indeed." The Superior clenched his jaw, not liking to be interrupted. "Even if you'd gone straight to a hospital they may not have been able to save you in time. If they had then you'd only end up riddled with surgical scars and left with a pretty useless left arm. So. There is a way in which I can save you, but if I do it, I'm going to need something in return."

"No, wait," Sam finally spoke up, moving closer to the bed so he could see both Dean and his maker. "Superior, let me make the offering. Dean doesn't know what he's getting into, it wouldn't be right to—"

"That is not your call and I _will not_ take from you – as it is you'd likely kill him!" Chuck paused a moment to calm himself. "Sam, while it's noble of you to offer, in this circumstance, to take something from you… Your curse would infect the process and therefore infect Dean, which I doubt would be your desired outcome. Besides, there are forthcoming times in which you will need yourself whole."

"What-" Dean glanced between the two other men, an increasingly panicked shine to his eyes. "What're you on about? Offerings and curses? I don't—"

"Dean, do you know your biological parents?" Chuck slapped him on the cheek. "Answer the question."

"No. I-… I grew up at an orphanage, until I was put in foster care."

"How long have you been hunting Hellions? How did you know how to fight them?"

"Hellions? Y'mean the monsters? Six months or so. And I don't know. It was weird at first, but I just did what felt right."

Chuck nodded encouragingly. "You were out in your uniform so you must work at night. Do you ever work in the day?"

"Not for ages. The sun hurts my eyes."

"And your age?" The Superior waited, but got no response. "How old are you, Dean?"

"Uh, thir—"

"Don't lie to me, Dean."

Dean swallowed, his eyes shadowed with dread. "Fifty-something. I don't know for sure. Being here in the city, being a cop, it's the longest I've ever stayed in once place."

Throughout the whole interrogation Sam had been taking careful steps backward, and finally he slammed his back straight into the wall, his eyes dark with despair. What Dean's answers were revealing, what the Superior already seemed to know, it was almost beyond comprehension. His father's generation of warriors were all dead, but Michael's generation had supposedly been twice the size of what it was now, so Sam had originally assumed that Dean was one of them and had somehow become separated from them at a younger age. But now it was clear that that wasn't the case and Dean was closer to Sam's age. And Sam had grown up thinking that he was the only one, that somehow he'd been the only one of his generation to survive. Yet, there was the very real evidence, lying right there on his bed. _Dying_. "Fuck… I thought—" _that I was all alone in this world_.

Chuck finally broke his gaze away from Dean's face, looking over to Sam with an expression full of regret. "Dean? What do you see when you look at Sam? What do you feel?"

"I… I see a man so dark I wonder if he's a man at all." Dean's voice was wheezy and it looked as though it hurt him to talk, but even then he didn't stop. "When he looks at me… it scares me. But he called me brother back there in that alley, and even now I can't stop that word going round 'n' round in my head. I feel like I wanna be near him even though some part of me feels like he'll hurt me."

Sam's heart was thudding away in his chest like a war drum. He could see the little smirk on Chuck's face even if Dean couldn't, the connotations of which eluded him. Really all he could focus on was thought that he would _never_ hurt Dean, _never never never. I could never hurt what's mine_.

"So, here's your choice, Dean," the Superior said, looking more pleased than he probably ought to, "There is only one way to save you from your impending death, and that's for you to become one of my Flock – a Wingman, just like Sam. The transition would give you strength and stamina, your broken flesh and bones would regenerate with no lasting effects."

"And what's this thing I have to give in return?"

"Your humanity. Part of it, at least. You take this deal and you have to stay here with the Flock – live with them, fight with them, endure with them. You won't be able to go back to your old life, any friends or family you have you'll need to forget about. It needs to be a smooth, clean cut."

Sam shifted where he stood, drawing attention to himself. He didn't like that the only choice here was 'turn or die', despite how desperately he wanted Dean to stay. "Dean…"

"It's fine, Sam," Dean said, even chancing a small smile, "Didn't have much going for me back there anyway. No friends or family, shitty apartment, shitty lifestyle, shitty job – much as I liked it. And besides. How long would I have lasted before people started to question my non-aging? I would've had to move on at some stage, just like I've moved on from all the other fake lives before this one."

The Superior cleared his throat. "Is that a 'yes'?"

"Okay then, Chucky. Let's get this show rollin'."

Chuck grinned delightedly. “Alright, Dean. Now we’re going to find out what you’re really made of.”

All it took was a blink of his eye and the Superior snapped the connection that had been holding Dean's crumbling body together. Immediately he was grey in the face and struggling to stay awake, and it was clear his life was on a quick downward slide. Pulling his sleeves back, Chuck exposed his wrist and used a finger to impel a deep slice to appear in the flesh of his wrist. He pressed the bleeding cut to Dean’s mouth and ordered him to drink.

"Don't spit it out, Dean. You must take my blood into your body to start the change."

Dean made a face, but swallowed the blood as he’d been told to do, licking his lips when Chuck finally pulled away.

“What now?” Dean asked between coughs, his voice weak, breath shallow.

“We wait. Won’t be long.”

Sam forced himself into a chair, his mind reeling from what had just transpired before his very eyes. It was crazy enough that his initial and inadvertent reaction of naming Dean 'brother' had been proven to be true, but to then realise he hadn't gone through the change? That wasn't normal. Or so he'd thought. From Sam's experience growing up, the change had been something that was always spoken about and seen as a rite of passage for any Flock warrior. After all the training that occurred during childhood, a more 'official' status was reached once a warrior turned eighteen.

Midnight on the eve of his eighteenth birthday, Sam had been taken up into the hills surrounding the camp where they'd lived. His older brothers and his father had all been there, looking down on him like they always did. A passage had been read that was in some strange language Sam was unfamiliar with, and he was presented with two ornate daggers and a goblet of wine. He hadn't been allowed to touch the daggers at first, but he'd drunk the wine, and then his father had sent the other Wingmen back to the camp.

'It's after midnight,' his father had said, 'the change will come shortly, and your brothers will hear you from all the way down there in the camp. Gabriel screamed the loudest; let's see if you can beat him.'

Just after the pain had gotten bad enough to bring him to his knees, Sam remembered watching his father walk away, leaving him there on his own. His change had lasted hours, and he'd screamed like the devil had been on his tail, trying to drag him into the pits of hell. His body had been one all-consuming mass of intolerable pain, but regardless of how bad it got, he'd never faded from consciousness and never lost awareness of where he was or what was happening. He'd barely managed to crawl into shade before the sun had risen, and it had occurred to him then that there had to have been warriors before him who'd lost the battle and perished in the first light of the sun. None of his brothers had ever mentioned that.

Now though, having watched things play out with Dean, the truth decided to slap him in the face.

"Everything I've been told it a lie."

Chuck snorted. "Not entirely."

"It was blood, not wine."

"It was both," Chuck offered. The Superior took his time turning away from Dean and shotting Sam an exacting look. "It was wine enough for everyone to be convinced it was wine."

"So it's really your blood that brings about the change and nothing to do with turning eighteen. Hence why Dean's remained mostly human."

"That's true. But I never gave it before then because I needed your bodies to be strong enough to withstand it. Enough of them died regardless. I'm surprised Dean managed to last this long without my blood, though. Must just be one more of his many anomalies – yet another trait you share, wouldn't you say?"

The implication that the Superior knew of Dean's 'demon-eating' ability was there, but Sam never got a chance to ask. Dean's scream of pain was enough to draw both of their attentions, and Sam moved himself back to the bed, anxious to touch yet not wanting to cause more pain. The ensuing hours were torture – the sound of snapping bones and the grinding of limbs as they grew and reset themselves. Dean's agony was resounding and pure, even after his voice stripped itself into silence. The terror on his face was enough. The betrayal in his eyes – he'd almost been stabbed and beaten to death, how could they subject him to this?

Sam's memories of his own change came back to him as vividly as if he were experiencing it himself. It almost felt as if the echoes of Dean's suffering were filtering into Sam's body, and it drained his energy completely, dragging him down onto the mattress and forcing him into a semi-conscious state. Dean's form continued to shake and convulse as the transition progressed, stilted grunts and whimpers for mercy forcing their way out from between his clenched teeth.

More time passed and Sam watched on as Dean's colouring diminished into a deathly grey and his movements decreased to small, jarring tics. Sam recalled enough of what he had gone through to know that this hadn't happened to him, and he hoped with all his might that this didn't mean Dean was losing his battle with the change. Suddenly he thrashed on the mattress, one arm flinging out and grabbing a hold of Sam's left wrist – dangerously close to the edge of his leather glove. He felt something pull within his chest, then another force push back just as strongly, and he knew without doubt that it was Dean causing both.

The sensations ebbed and flowed, growing alternately stronger and weaker, until Sam noticed the greyness leaving Dean's complexion, a more normal colour taking its place. Whatever Dean was drawing out of him, it was working. That was all he needed to know.

He drifted for what seemed a longer stretch of time than it probably was, skirting the edge of wakefulness just enough that he could keep his eyes on Dean's advancement through the change. He had to be pretty close to coming out the other side by now. Whatever connection had been forged between him and Dean was certainly indicating that the end was in reach, that soon Dean would be a fully-fledged warrior of the Flock and no one would be able to argue otherwise – Sam would finally have someone to fill the hole that had drilled itself into his heart as the only child in the Flock camp. It felt something like relief.

Eventually, however, he reached a point where there was nowhere he could go but down, and Sam gave into the inviting arms of unconsciousness.

 

Dean was awake. He'd been awake for some time already, but the one attempt he'd made at opening his eyes had felt something like taking on the greatest task in existence, so he'd relented and stayed as he was, quiet and still. It had given him ample time to reflect over the chaotic events of the recent past, which seemed more like something he'd seen in some fantastical action movie rather than what he himself had undergone.

The lingering ache in his bones was the one thing that made it all real, though. There was no mistake there. And there was certainly no forgetting the sickening cracks of his bones spontaneously fracturing and resetting themselves, or the ripple of his skin and muscle as it stretched and remoulded itself to his new shape. From the tips of his toes to the crown of his head, everything had throbbed with pain, demanding his attention while it had changed within the confines of his body. Dean wasn't entirely sure how long it had lasted, but it had to have been hours, and that thought made his stomach lurch. How he'd remained so lucid and aware of it all he had no idea.

Sam had been there the entire time, too. Sam, who had found him in that alley and brought him back to this strange place with its strange people. But for all that he'd listened to every word that had passed between Sam and Chuck, he still felt pretty clueless about everything that was going on. Or, maybe not _everything_. For one, he knew that he'd finally found what he was looking for, even if he'd had to reach the brink of death in order to do it. Finally he'd stumbled upon those who actually knew what the mutant vampire creatures were, and more importantly knew how to fight the damn things. Sure, he hadn't exactly seen Sam fight, but he had noticed the weapons hidden under his jacket and the splatters of black liquid on his clothes. The guy's size alone told Dean that he'd be one hell of a dude to contend with.

And now he was going to be one of them. Or so said Chuck. Apparently he'd _always_ been one of them. He had to wonder what the fuck had happened when he was a baby that had left him alone in a world filled with people that, in fact, _weren't really his people_. In some ways it was fucking majorly with his brain to know that he wasn't fully human, but that was his denial talking more than anything. Way down in the pit of his belly he'd always known that he was different – like, alien type of different. He'd gone from foster home to foster home because none of them had been able to deal with his intense anger and crazed mood swings, or the way he'd zone out sometimes or always fall asleep in the day while he'd never sleep at night. Several of his guardians had passed him on simply because he'd 'freaked them out'. And while the 'freak' part might have bothered him for a minute, he eventually grew to be secretly proud of it.

That had been a long time ago, however. As soon as he'd been legally able he'd left whatever home he'd been in and went off to fend for himself. It'd been the early nineteen-seventies by that stage, and therefore much easier to pick up menial, temporary work and find lodging in someone's spare room. By the time he'd turned twenty-five he'd found himself a cheap flat and settled in with a job as a mechanic. But by then he'd also noticed that he still didn't look a day over twenty, and whenever anybody asked him his age they'd always give him a suspicious look, as if they just _knew_ he was lying. Into his thirties and forties he'd developed a routine of accumulating fake IDs and birth certificates, and never stopping in the one place for more than five years. Until he ended up in the city, that was. He'd always avoided them before, but realised at the tender age of forty-eight that it was far easier to get away with being a 'freak' when you were in the city, surrounded by infinite amounts of people you could blend in with.

And there he'd stayed, keeping to the façade of his twenty-five year old face while he progressed through the police academy and started his life as a beat cop. It struck him suddenly what kind of strange fate it was that he'd landed himself in a city filled with Hellions, the monsters he was evidently born to kill. And then for Sam to have found him at that precise moment in time…

Dean gathered his strength and forced his eyes open. His eyes ached and his eyelids wanted to drop straight back down again, but he was determined to get himself up and moving. The first thing he noticed about his surroundings was that he wasn't in the same room he'd been in when he passed out. Sam had said it was his room, and while the lighting had been relatively dim, it hadn't been quite as dark as it was in… wherever the fuck he was now.

He glanced around at the bare, gritty walls. Oddly it reminded him of a bomb shelter, but no sane person would have a cushy bed, chairs, tables and a full entertainment unit in a bomb shelter, right? Ignoring his unfounded worries that he'd somehow become a prisoner, Dean focussed instead on getting his body to be _his_ again. He clenched his muscles, wriggled his fingers and toes, and took a few deep breaths to get the basics covered. Lifting his right hand, he brought it up in front of his face, and despite the darkness of the room he could see every detail as clear as day. His hand – while it did still look like his hand – did indeed look different. It was definitely bigger than it had been – not a whole lot, but enough that it was noticeable. His skin was the same though, and he could still see the scar over his knuckles from when he'd punched a mirror that one time.

It all came back to him in a rush, and Dean found himself sitting up with a start, fretfully pushing the sheets away until he could see the whole of his torso – now free of any stab wounds or blood. In fact, his skin was so pristine-looking, had he not recalled the extensive range of pain endured at the hands of those beasts, he might have been persuaded to think it was all a dream. Even his shoulder, which he tentatively flexed and rotated, was as good as new. Every injury which had occurred the night before was completely erased from his body – his now somewhat larger body. By his guess he'd gained at least two, possibly three inches on top of his former physique. His chest certainly felt more solid, and his arms were definitely thicker. There was no way he'd have matched Sam's height, but he was sure the two of them were more 'of a size' now.

Speaking of Sam, the _Wingman_ , as Chuck had put it, was lying in the same position as he had been when Dean had lost consciousness. Sam's eyes had dropped shut not long before his own, but Dean had still been surprised by it at the time. Or maybe panicked would be a better description. Dean remembered that towards the end of his change he'd started feeling weaker than ever and he'd tasted something acidic at the back of his throat like he'd been about to hurl. That was when his body had acted all on its own and his hand had grabbed tight onto Sam's wrist and not let go. At first he'd thought it was no big deal, just a reaction, but then he'd gotten that weird tugging feeling in his gut, like someone had a hold of his insides and was trying to pull him _into_ Sam. Dean hadn't known what was going on – still didn't – but almost instantly he'd started to feel alright again and the sickness he'd felt had emptied away.

It was all a bit much for a guy to take in. Dean was a simple sort. He liked straightforward problems with common-sense answers – like criminal, in handcuffs, straight to jail, or monster, knife to the gut, watch it die. That was his bag. All this crazy shit with blood drinking and curses and secret warrior gangs was a bit beyond him for all that he was now knee-deep in it. He needed Sam to wake up and do some 'splainin'. There'd been several moments earlier on when he'd seemed pretty distressed, so possibly there'd be some worries on his mind, too. Yep, Sam needed to get yappin' and then they could both feel better.

"Hey, Sam?" Dean leaned closer to his sleeping bed-mate. "Sammy, wake up… _Sam_."

He repeated himself thrice over but with no luck. The big dude was _out_.

Dean couldn't bring himself to back away, though. At this distance he could make out every minute detail of Sam's face and shoulders and his fascination was undeniable. Sam was still in the t-shirt he'd been wearing earlier, but unlike then, Dean could now take a good look at the other man, take him in in his own time. The sheet over him had dropped down somewhere in the vicinity of his waist, and with a quick further tug Dean was able to get a look at the plane of his stomach where his shirt had ridden up. Visible was a gnarly-looking gash which stretched down from somewhere on his chest, and disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants. Neat, black stitches were holding it closed, but there was a slight gap where a couple of them had popped, and the blood which had leaked had been smeared by the t-shirt. Dean had no idea how old it was, but the edges of it were dark pink and that definitely wasn't a good sign.

Moving up, Dean came level with Sam's face. Even in sleep the Wingman looked as though he were on guard, the edge of a frown line visible from beneath the long fringe of his hair. Feeling courageous, Dean hooked a finger under the hair and lifted it away, the air in his lungs escaping in a rush the moment he got a look at what Sam was hiding. Dean had just thought that Sam was shy or something, not actually trying to conceal a blemish or deformity. So the sight of the scarring there was definitely a shock, and Dean had to stop himself from reaching out and touching. He couldn't imagine how Sam would've come by such an injury accidentally – the edges of it were far too precise. It covered most of his eyelid and then spread up over his brow to his hairline. Raised lines criss-crossed over the entire area, pulling the skin tight, and they appeared to be random and not in any sort of pattern that Dean could distinguish.

He supposed he could understand why Sam would keep it covered like he did – it was pretty confronting upon first glance – but for Dean, scars were a badge of honour, a symbol of a trial overcome. He had his fair share that he'd gained over the years, most of them from his time as a cop, but while he didn't really flaunt them, he didn't make an effort to hide them either. Finally he pulled back his hand and let Sam's hair fall back down over his face. Several strands landed at the very edge of his mouth, and Dean felt a puff of warm air brush his hand as Sam sniffled and wriggled his nose, the strands having tickled his lips. And speaking of lips, Dean found himself closer to Sam's than he'd meant to be. He didn't stop himself this time as he ran a thumb over the fullness of Sam's lower lip, finding it dry but surely as soft as it looked.

There was definitely a thought there in the back of his mind that he could probably kiss Sam right then and get away with it. He wouldn't be the first guy Dean had ever kissed, but he'd be the first in a long time. Dean wasn't sure if he'd suddenly developed some kind of hero complex, or if it was this creepy _connection_ thing they had going that was pulling him in, but it wasn't necessarily a bad thing, right? He hadn't met any of the rest of the Flock yet – for all he knew they were all arrogant bastards – but since he'd accepted Chuck's offer and gone through the change, he was going to be stuck there one way or the other. What Dean had been through clearly wasn't the path of your average Wingman, so whether the others would revere or despise him for it remained to be seen. Sam would have to be his lifeline in this. Dean might have liked to play the 'lone wolf' card most of the time, but at heart he craved company.

Sam seemed like he'd make good company.

Still toying with the guy's lip, Dean switched to the upper one, tracing its edges and even lifting it just enough to see the white of Sam's teeth. Dean didn't know what he was expecting to see, but finding straight, mildly stained teeth was a bit of an anticlimax. That was, until he spotted the canines. He'd seen people with pointy canines before, but _shit_ , Sam's looked sharp as razors. Dean finally left Sam's mouth alone and focussed on his own mouth, running his thumb along the underside of his teeth and wincing when the skin stung like he'd been pricked with a needle. Pulling back he found a small bead of blood had welled on his fingertip, and Dean knew that he had the same pair of razor-sharps as Sam. _Well, fuck_.

Suddenly the whole deal was making a lot more sense – the years of light-sensitivity, the speedy healing, the blood which Chuck had made him drink… He'd seen enough crappy vampire movies to know what was what. Not that he was necessarily angry about it, because he wasn't. Not really. It would've been nice if Chuck had been a little more forthcoming, though. If the offer had been phrased more like, 'Dean the only way to save you is to vampirise you', well, he probably would've laughed, but he wouldn't have said no. In fact, he doubted his life would change all that much anyway, apart from not being a cop anymore. No, the only thing he might sorta possibly have an issue with would be the blood drinking thing. Again, something he'd have to ask Sam about, if the lug would ever bother to wake up.

Curious, and now feeling a little more confident, Dean decided to get a better look at Sam's gloves, since the guy was so keen on wearing them. Sure, it was cool out, but it wasn't like it was the middle of winter. Maybe he had some kind of skin condition or something. That wasn't such a big deal, was it? Reaching down, Dean swiped his fingers over the well-worn leather. It was super soft and pliable, and stretched over Sam's large hands like a second skin. He just been about to pick at the edge of it when all of a sudden Sam was upright, his eyes dark with anger and his arms raised, ready to punch out whoever had disturbed him.

"Whoa, man, calm down!" Dean sat back, his own arms lifted in surrender.

"What-! Uh…" Sam blinked and took in his surroundings, his body slowly relaxing back to a more normal state. "Oh, sorry."

"S'ok," Dean offered, "What gives, though? Nightmare or somethin'?"

Sam exhaled and ran his fingers through his hair. "You touched my glove, right? Were you gonna try and take it off?"

He shrugged. "Uh, I dunno? I just thought it was weird that—"

"Don't ever do that, okay? I wear these for a reason."

Dean nodded, his curiosity still burning. "Right, gotcha… So, uh, you lucid enough to tell me what happens now? Where we are would be a good start."

"We're in my basement. Each of the bedrooms here has one, but we really only use them if we're especially tired or injured. For our kind being sealed in darkness, or underground, or both, has a sort of healing effect. The Superior must have moved us down here before he left."

"The Superior?"

Sam blinked in confusion, before it occurred to him what Dean was asking. "Right. Chuck is the Superior. You get that he's pretty powerful, yeah? Well, he's our maker. Hundreds of years ago he was the one to create the Flock. We defer to him in all things."

"A skinny little guy with a week's worth of scruff and bloodshot eyes is your _maker_?" Dean scoffed. 'Cause that wasn't weird _at all_. Chuck looked like a flippin' college geek who'd been too busy studying to remember to sleep.

"Look, he doesn't usually look like that, alright? And he's not usually that nice, either. I'm pretty sure he just put himself in his human form so he wouldn't freak you out. When I went to ask him about you he was still in his spirit form."

"You… asked him? …About me?"

"I had to," Sam said, as it was obvious, "Back in that alley, I called you brother because when I was watching you, then when I came near you, something… resonated inside me. I'd never felt that before and it freaked me out a bit. So getting the Superior to meet you was the only way to know for sure. And whacked as it is, I was right."

Dean didn't say anything straight away, deciding instead to watch Sam for a moment, the way he was nervously plucking at the sheets, and pointedly not looking back at him. "But… you're not happy about? I mean, you don't look happy, and I woulda thought—"

"No, no, it's not that," Sam denied in a rush, "I am happy. Really. I'm just… feeling sorry for myself or something. Because if you really are from the same Flock generation as me, that means there's a lot of things that happened that could have been avoided if you'd been there."

"Do you know why…?"

"Why you ended up where you did? No idea. The way I grew up, let's just say that there wasn't really anyone I could go to to ask questions. And no one told me anything I didn't have to know."

Sam shook his head sadly, and Dean believed him. It was just like… just being around the guy was making him feel all melancholy. He could relate in a lot of ways, though. There had been people he'd gone to as a kid asking questions and questions and questions, but they'd either told him he didn't need to know or to get lost. It had only made him even more hungry for answers, but since there were none, his grudge on the past had burned into a deep black hollow in his soul.

"You've probably got a lot of questions," Sam went on, "And there's probably plenty I can answer. But stuff about the past? I've probably got as many blank spots as you do."

"Great," Dean muttered, "What's the chance there's a shower 'round here, then? We've got plenty of time to play twenty questions later, right?"

"Yeah, 'course. Um, there's a bathroom back behind that door. Just let me get you a towel and a change of clothes. T-shirt and sweats okay?"

Dean nodded and stayed where he was while Sam turned to get himself up from the bed. He was still in a shirt and leather pants – which couldn't have been nice to sleep in – but they certainly accentuated the right parts of his body. Dean almost couldn't tear his eyes away from the generous span of Sam's thighs, except that as soon as the other man was getting up onto his feet, he was quickly plummeting straight back down again. He jumped up onto his knees, ignoring that he was only in his boxer briefs, and got an arm around Sam's shoulders, easing him back to the mattress.

"You alright, buddy? You don't look so good."

"Sure," Sam nodded, "Just stood up too quick, y'know?"

Dean wasn't sure he believed him, but after a few deep breaths Sam was up again and staying up, and he retrieved the towel and clothes for Dean and sent him on his way. Dean did his best to go about things as normally as possible, but he soon discovered that his slightly longer limbs and heightened strength were going to take a little getting used to. He must have whacked his toes and fingers against nearly every possible obstacle there was, but at least the resulting pains didn't last very long.

When he returned to the main part of the room, feeling a shitload better than he had been, he found Sam gone and the bed sheets stripped. The shaft of light that dropped from the ceiling however, revealed a sturdy half-ladder, half-staircase that led up into what must have been Sam's bedroom. Dean scrambled his way up to find Sam already washed and dressed, sitting on the bed he'd first woken up on and polishing his weapons.

Sam looked up from the knife in his hand and laid it back in its leather sheath. His face was pale but he was looking slightly more alert than he had been back in the basement.

"Bet you could eat a horse right now, huh? Let's go find some grub."

 

"If we run into anyone, just… try not to say too much, okay?"

Dean nodded as he was led through the house – or maybe mansion was a more appropriate description – trying to make note of the layout so he could avoid getting lost. Admittedly, he didn't think he was doing a very good job. Sam, on the other hand, knew it like the back of his hand, weaving easily through the endless hallways and had just turned into what looked to be the kitchen when the Wingman's shoulders tensed.

"Oh, fuck."

"Sam Winchester," a man's voice suddenly boomed across the expanse of the kitchen, "You dare bring this human trash into our home!"

Willing himself to remain unaffected by the jab, Sam turned deliberately to face the older man. They were of a similar height, Sam only marginally taller. "If you'd care to sense him, _brother_ , you might find the case to be otherwise."

The man's head tilted slightly as he did just that, a pointed sneer sliding over his features. "What sort of blasphemy have you committed now, boy?"

"You can take it up with the Superior if you've got a problem with it, since he's the one that brought about the change."

Dean looked on in silence as the two Wingmen battled with their eyes, and he could see the older warrior gearing up to get physical about it. He'd been about ready to say something to Sam when a short, blue-eyed man stepped around from behind the other and put a placating hand on his shoulder.

"Uriel, if the Superior allowed it then who are we to judge?"

"He may be our maker, Castiel, but that doesn't mean I have to like his methods. And why would he turn this man, anyway? Some nobody picked up from a back alley? Sacrilege."

The warrior named Castiel turned to regard Dean, his piercing blue eyes staring at him unblinkingly. Dean almost felt as if he'd been violated.

"He appears to have been born as one of us." Castiel finally broke his eye contact, shifting it instead to Uriel. "Perhaps he is creating a new generation. Or re-establishing what never became of Sam's."

Uriel growled low in his throat and marched straight ahead, clipping both Sam and Dean in the shoulder as he went. Sam seemed to wince at the firm contact, reflexively reaching for his arm though he forced himself to stop midway.

"You don't appear well, Sam," Castiel said, the barest trace of a frown on his features.

"That's what I said," Dean huffed, "But d'you think he'd listen?"

Castiel turned to him, doing that freaky thing with his eyes again. "Tell me your name, warrior. I am Castiel."

"Uh, Dean. Just Dean. Nice to meet you, I guess?"

The Wingman merely nodded, before gesturing to the fridge. "Have either of you eaten?"

"Not yet. Just got down here before we were interrupted."

"I see." Castiel smoothly retrieved a container from the fridge and two bowls from one of the cupboards nearby. "These are the remains of the casserole Samandriel made two days ago. Since we forbade him from using the oven he has become quite adept with the slow-cooker."

Not knowing how to respond, Dean just watched in silence as two portions of casserole were heated in the microwave by this strange-mannered man. The whole thing was almost surreal. He glanced at Sam, now leaning against the bench at his side and looking a bit peaky. He figured the guy just needed to get some food in him and he'd be fine. But their plans were upended when yet another Flock warrior revealed himself suddenly, practically jumping onto Sam's back and circling his arms round his neck.

"Heya Sam. Wanna introduce me to your friend?"

The new guy was slim and relatively tall with a handsome face and dark hair, but a cruel-looking smile on his lips. Something about him said 'I'm gonna mess you up' and Dean had no doubt that he could if he wanted to. He seemed full of confidence and overly sure of himself, and was hanging about like he owned the place.

"Michael, would you mind removing yourself from Sam's neck, please."

"Aw, Cassie, you're no fun," Michael whined like a spoiled child, though he did take his arms away from Sam's neck, moving to hang over one shoulder instead. "Sammy, loves it when I show him a little affection, don't ya, Sam?"

Dean couldn't tell for certain, but he got the feeling that something in Michael's tone was purposely mean-spirited. Sam definitely didn't look comfortable, but being the new guy, Dean didn't want to upset the balance if it wasn't called for.

"Don't, Michael," Sam said under his breath. It was barely audible.

Michael turned to Dean, grinning. "He's just being shy. Now, you gonna tell me your name, or what?"

"Dean," he said flatly.

"Dean-o! Nice! I'm impressed you made a friend, Sam – Daddy woulda been so proud." Michael slipped down from Sam's shoulders and drummed his hands on his stomach, and then it was all over for Sam who went down like a ton of bricks.

Castiel reached him first since Michael was blocking Dean's way, and the Wingman got his arms around Sam's back and hoisted him back upright.

"I think you've given enough affection for the day, Michael."

Michael gave a mocking salute before heading off back the way he'd come. Castiel gestured with his head and Dean hurriedly picked up the slack on Sam's other side. They walked him into a nearby lounge room and sat him down in an armchair, Sam flopping down on it like a dead weight.

"You haven't fed," Castiel stated.

Sam's breath was wheezy. "Guess not."

"And you're injured. I'd have thought you knew better by now," the warrior sighed with disappointment and angled his head toward the ceiling. "Samandriel?"

A moment later Dean heard a rumble of footsteps coming from somewhere far away in the house. They grew nearer and nearer until a skinny kid with sandy blonde hair appeared in the open doorway.

"Oh, wait," Dean said without thinking, "You're the kid who had his fingers in my stomach."

Samandriel gaped at him like he'd seen a ghost. "Y- you… Oh my holy Swiss cheese, he changed you! How is that even—?"

"Samandriel," Castiel interrupted, "There are more pressing matters to attend to right now."

The kid glanced at Sam and his face fell. "The wound on his stomach smells infected. And his energy is gone, like, _completely_ gone. That's… Never mind, I can fix it."

Dean wanted to ask how the kid knew, moreover how he could fix it, but there was suddenly an insistent hand on his arm, steering him out of the lounge and back into the kitchen. Castiel gestured for him to take a seat at the bench, and then there was a bowl of warm casserole and a glass of water pushed in front of him. He nodded in thanks and started to eat – he hadn't even realised just how starving he was.

"I don't know what your relationship with Sam is," Castiel began, "And likely he hasn't had time to explain much to you, but generally when we take from the Fount we do it in private."

Dean paused mid-chew, "When you what from the who-now?"

Castiel's lips pressed into a faint line. Apparently Dean was even less informed than he'd anticipated. "Let me start from the beginning. As a warrior of the Flock, in order to retain your strength and stamina, your body requires you to drink blood on a regular basis. A long time ago we had human followers who would offer their vein to us in return for our protection. But there came a time when human blood was no longer strong enough within the small quantities we took, so the Superior fashioned Samandriel for us. We name him the Fount, and we drink his pure blood at least once a month."

Swallowing his mouthful, Dean put his spoon to the side. "So these canines of mine aren't just for show."

"No. You will have to learn to control them, but you should be able to drop and retract them at will. In the next week you will find yourself needing the Fount's blood quite often until you've finished adapting. You will also need more if you become injured."

"Wait. Adapting?"

"Yes. While you are young, you're body still has the opportunity to alter itself for certain purposes, should it be required. For instance, if you were to go on a long distance run tomorrow, your legs might elongate and your muscle mass might diminish slightly."

Dean nodded in comprehension, but then laughed when he realised what the Wingman had said. "I'm not _that_ young, y'know. Nearly sixty."

Castiel frowned and seemed to be calculating the dates in his mind. Then suddenly his eyes widened, but he schooled his expression so quickly Dean almost wondered if he'd imagined it.

"I see. I would… keep that piece of information close to my chest if I were you."

At a loss for what to say, Dean picked his spoon back up and carried on eating. He'd just started scraping the bottom of the bowl when Sam appeared at the door. He looked slightly drunk, but there was plenty of colour in his cheeks and he seemed at ease on his feet.

"Cas? You might wanna see to Samandriel. I think I kinda… went a little overboard."

The warrior was gone in an instant, and Sam helped himself to the second bowl of food, still sitting in the microwave.

"You feelin' better, champ?"

"Don't call me that," Sam groused, "But yeah, I am. I was stupid to leave it that long. And then getting injured the other day, and carrying you back here yesterday, and that energy drain you did on me. All took its toll, I guess."

"Hold up a minute. You _carried_ me back here? And what the hell's an energy drain?" Dean didn't like the sound of any of it.

"Had to carry you. No one else was gonna help me, and it's not like I could take a taxi. And don't you remember? Toward the end of your change, you grabbed onto me and did some weird energy sucking thing that I've never seen before."

Picking his jaw up off the table, Dean wanted to scold Sam for doing something as stupid as carrying a fully grown man all the way out of the city. He supposed it wouldn't do him any good though, and he turned his attention to this apparent 'energy drain'. He remembered grabbing on to Sam's wrist, and he remembered that weird pulling feeling in his chest, but he had no idea that it was himself causing it, or that it had done any damage to Sam.

"I'm sorry? If I'd known I was doing it—"

"It doesn't matter. I was grateful, actually. You were looking pretty grey in the face by the end of it, and I'd thought you were going to die. So when you grabbed onto me… I dunno. It was strange, but you started looking better straight away so I just went with it."

"Right, I…" Dean paused, and couldn't help but laugh. "I get the feeling there's gonna be a whole lot'a strange where you and I are concerned."

Sam swallowed his mouthful and grinned.

 

+||+||+||+||+

 


	4. [fic] Devil's Disciples || Sam/Dean, nc17 || Part 4

 

"Give your hand to the pretty lady, Sam."

What pretty lady? All Sam could see was a faceless creature with black holes where its eyes and mouth should have been. Its fingers were bony and gnarled, like thin branches on an old tree, and they reached out for him, for his hands, and Sam realised his father was talking about this _thing_. Couldn't he see its terrible face?

"Don’t make me angry, boy. Do as I say and give her your hand."

Sam shook his head wildly and tried to step back, only to be stopped in his tracks by his father's hands on his shoulders.

"Don't be like that, John," the creature hissed, the black void of its mouth expanding and contracting in a gross simulation of lips, "It seems your boy can see my true face. It's only right that he would be scared."

The witch creature snatched his hands up anyway, its grip tight like a strangler vine. He was pulled in close and stared at with those two hollow eye sockets, its mouth curling into something resembling a smile.

"You've already been marked," it said, pointing to the birthmark on his left hand and the mild difference of colour between his two eyes, "But you are only half of a whole, little Sam. How can you ever hope to please your daddy when you'll only ever be a sliver of a good thing?"

Suddenly he was knocked from his feet and pushed to the ground, the witch's prickly hands grabbing onto his left wrist and the right side of his face. Sam struggled with every last scrap of energy he possessed, but after the beating he'd already been subjected to that day, there was no way he was escaping from the creature's considerable strength.

Strange, unnatural sounds started pouring from the thing's mouth, repeating over and over like a war cry. Everywhere the witch was in contact with him started to burn, growing hotter and hotter until his skin felt like it was on fire.

He screamed.

And the witch laughed.

"Don't fight me, child. Don't you see? I'm making you useful! You will bring about the ends of things – your very touch will drag life down into death, and you'll see your brothers perish every time you close your eyes! Cursed for the sake of all!"

"You, Witch! What d'you think you're doing!"

Sam felt the creature's body pull from atop him, a blurred vision of his father filtering through his untouched eye. His expression was furious and Sam tried to curl away but his body wouldn't cooperate.

"See how you like that, John Winchester!" The witch cackled, "That'll teach you to demand favours from those you've wronged!"

His father hollered in anger and leapt after the creature. Sam couldn't see either of them, but he could hear the harsh screeching of the witch and the shattering of glass and splintering of wood. He laid there in agony, while all he could do was listen to the destruction going on around him. Gradually the small hut he was in crumbled down piece by piece, until the roof came down from above.

+||+||+||+||+

 

It was two in the afternoon. Dean was awake – feeling fatigued like he always did during daylight hours, but still awake nonetheless.

He and Sam had chatted some more after their meal, and they had done a little training session to teach Dean to drop his fangs. He'd gotten the hang of it after a while and he'd asked about needing to feed. Sam had told him they'd get Samandriel to drop by the next night since he'd gone a little overboard with his own feeding, and nearly drunk the kid dry – not that it would kill him or anything, since his body didn't work that way, but he'd need a day to recover all the same.

When morning had come around again, they'd both retreated to Sam's bedroom without questioning the sleeping arrangements. Dean had no doubt there would be plenty of spare rooms in the place any of which he could've taken, but neither of them had said anything as they'd stripped down and gotten comfortable in Sam's bed, each keeping to their side of the mattress. The fact that Dean even considered he had a 'side' was ridiculous, but somehow it felt natural between them, like they didn't even need to discuss it – it just _was_.

He'd managed several hours of sleep before he'd woken, his bleary eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling. Probably just too much going on, keeping his brain busy.

As the minutes ticked away, Dean noticed Sam start to toss and turn a little, restrained moans catching in his throat. Dean tried calling his name but Sam didn't respond, merely kept kicking and fidgeting more acutely as time wore on. By the time he started whimpering outright Dean was getting quite concerned, and he lifted himself up and took hold of Sam's shoulders, shaking him nervously.

Sam blinked awake suddenly, his lips parted as he gasped for breath. His hair was strewn about wildly giving Dean a good look at his eyes, both of which were spilling tears down his cheeks.

Not wanting to frighten him away, Dean took Sam's face in his hands, ever-so-gently wiping the tears away with his thumbs. Sam just laid there and let him do it, staring back at Dean with those fascinating hazel eyes, one just a little greener than the other. Not wanting to break the spell, Dean kept on stroking with his thumbs, the world around them narrowing down to nothing more than the bed and their two bodies, so close but not close enough.

The smallest stutter of Sam's breath was all it took to destroy the moment, Sam thrashing his head to the right to bury the side of his face in the pillow. Dean kept his hands where they were, though, determined to not let Sam shy away from him.

"I didn't want you to see that," he whispered.

"You think I wouldn't eventually?"

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. "It's horrible. There's no reason to look."

"It's part of you, isn't it? I wanna know every part."

"Be careful what you wish for."

Dean sighed. "What were you dreaming about?"

"My father. And the witch who cursed me."

"You—" Dean wanted to say such a thing was ridiculous, but after all that he'd seen and experienced so far, how could he justify it? "A witch cursed you… And your father – he saved you?"

"No. He was the one who took me there to begin with. I was a failure to him. She was supposed to fix me. But like everyone else who'd ever met my father, she hated him right down to her bones, so she cursed me instead. It nearly killed me."

Dean hardly dared to ask. "What did she do?"

Sam's eyes flickered open and he turned his head just enough to look back at Dean. "My eye. And my left hand. She ruined them. Now I have dreams – sometimes I see memories really vividly, other times I see things that haven't happened yet, warnings and cryptic messages, things I'm meant to do… It's not always clear."

"And your hand?"

"All it does is destroy. One touch and any living thing will crumble into ash before my eyes. Flock included."

His brow rose with intrigue. "You've tested that theory then?"

"It was an accident…" Sam heaved a sigh. "But I killed my father with it."

"Oh, jeez." Dean's hands finally slipped down from Sam's face. "I'm sor—"

"I'm not," Sam cut in, "Not really. Call me heartless if you like, but he deserved to die for the shit he put everyone through – put _me_ through. It's a kind of poetic justice, don't you think? That he'd die from a curse that was his fault in the first place?"

Dean gave a half-smile. It was the best he could do. He could relate in one respect, though – some of his foster carers could definitely have gone directly to Hell, do not pass Go, for all he cared.

"Karma's a bitch."

Sam's face finally relaxed into a grin.

"C'mon," Dean said, sitting back on his heels and tugging Sam upright. He took the right-hand glove and pulled it off, throwing down onto the floor somewhere, and then very carefully divested Sam of his left glove – one of the two iron walls between him and the world. Sam jumped a little when Dean leaned in close, but he took extra care not to touch it, just wanting to examine what the Wingman was trying so hard to hide away. The skin looked almost the same as that around his eye – thin and tight and covered in raised lines over the entirety of his fingers, palm, and up to his wrist.

Once he was satisfied he'd made his point, Dean handed Sam back his glove and watched him slide it on and press it down between his fingers. But he wasn't finished just yet. The glove he could deal with, but the hair? Dean placed his hands on either side of Sam's neck and slowly let his palms glide over the surface of his skin, sliding up over the jawline until they were just where he'd had them before. Sam's hair was in the way this time, but Dean could still feel the edge of the scarring under the tips of his fingers and Sam hadn't moved away.

Taking that as a sign, Dean moved in for the kiss. He pressed their lips together just lightly at first, going deeper when there was no sudden reaction. He didn't linger, however, pulling back after just a few seconds – he didn't want to jump into the deep end before he'd made sure Sam was on the same page.

"Is this too fast, d'you think? Y'better say so if it is."

"Dunno about you," Sam said, biting anxiously at his lips, "But I think I've been waiting for a connection like this for nearly fifty years."

Dean grinned. That's exactly what it was – a real and true connection. "Fuck, yes."

They came together simultaneously, mouths hungry and searching this time. Dean angled Sam's head and pushed in deeper, curling his tongue against Sam's lips and then slipping it inside. Sam groaned and responded in kind, delving into Dean's mouth and basking in the heat of it. His arms came up around Dean's shoulders to draw their bodies closer, and Dean shivered at the cool slide of leather over his skin. Nervous but determined, Dean finally dared to move his own hands, using them to push Sam's hair up and away from his face, baring the whole of it to the room. Dean pulled back just enough to look at the other man eye-to-eye, hoping his gaze alone might project his acceptance.

The message seemed to get through, since Sam was the next to initiate, dragging them back into a kiss even more desperate than before. They only withdrew when the need for air became too great to ignore, and their breaths mingled as they leant against one another for support.

"I always wished for this," Sam whispered.

Dean let his eyes ask the obligatory 'what?' on his behalf.

"I wished for someone to see all of me and not be afraid of it."

Leaning in close, Dean whispered back, "Be careful what you wish for."

" _Jerk_."

 

He's in the darkness again. Forever in the darkness.

But this time it's moving, like he's in the deep of the ocean and the water is swirling around him.

He's floating, drifting, and it's almost calming. Almost.

The darkness is turning, turning, turning, and its eyes are red, red, red.

_No, they can't have me._

Sam reaches for his weapon, but it disintegrates in his hand. Where are his gloves?

He reaches out. They're coming for him. He wants to push them away.

Sam's hand goes in, carving through the water, and it burns. It burns his skin and he can feel it peeling in the heat.

But the darkness. It shivers and ebbs away. Fades into the depths.

He touches more of it, more of the darkness, and it fades away.

He keeps touching, touching, touching, until he sees the light.

 

+||+||+||+||+

 

Out on the prowl.

Finally Dean felt like he was back in his element again, out on the streets ready to take down the bad guys. Several days couped up at the Flock compound had made him antsy and he was jonesing for a good fight. Sure, he'd had to prove his body was under control and ready to go, and yes, it was probably still too soon, but thankfully Sam had realised how in need he was of seeing some familiar territory.

So there they were, back in the city, in Dean's backyard. There was no guarantee they'd run into any Hellions, and Dean was actually okay with that, it was more the promise of it that was providing the high. Apparently, in the days subsequent to the 'pest bomb' that Gabriel had set off, the other brothers that had been patrolling hadn't laid an eye on a single Hellion. Dean had heard Uriel expressing his dissatisfaction on the previous night from all the way down the hall. Which was probably another reason Sam had said he'd make sure they were the ones out there tonight – the other Wingman maintained that he had a strange feeling about taking Dean back into the world, but clearly he'd realised that where Dean was concerned, it was a contest he wouldn't win.

Every few minutes Sam would prod at him mentally and Dean would be expected to do the same. He was still getting used to the whole 'mental connection' business, and it was going to take some time. At first it had felt like a sudden headache at different points over the surface of his skull, but now it was more akin to being hit on the head with a rubber ball. Supposedly once he got used to it it would become as natural as breathing, but Dean wasn't quite so sure. There seemed to be some pretty high expectations on his shoulders, but being the new guy, he guessed he'd just have to wear it.

Several hours passed with no sign of any Hellions – which admittedly disappointed Dean, just a little – but the night wasn't to be without its excitement. Sam, having caught on to his dwindling good mood, challenged him to a sparring match in the middle of the street. As fun as their training efforts had been, different weapons, weights, padded mats and the like, it felt good to get himself smashed into a wall, and swipe Sam's feet out from under him.

They'd just been contemplating heading back to the mansion when there was a noise from somewhere nearby, prompting Sam and Dean to be on their toes, blades at the ready. When nothing more happened and they were nearly convinced it must have been a stray cat or something, yet another noise had them spinning on their heels, coming face to face with a tall, blonde man, two High Hellions flanking him from several yards behind. Dean knew instantly that he wasn't human, but he couldn't pick up on what exactly made him feel like an 'other'. Of course, the hauntingly pale eyes and blistering skin were somewhat of a giveaway.

"Ooh, lookie what we have here," the man purred playfully, though his eyes bespoke the sinister nature of his intentions, "I do believe it's the Winchester duo! You guys have no idea how long I've been waiting to meet you all grown up and in the flesh. And fine specimens you are too."

A stunned stillness passed over them, where Dean had to ponder what particular fragment of his words had tugged more at his uneasiness. He sensed Sam was busily rifling through his thoughts, and then an alarmed punch knocked him in the chest – Sam was _panicking_.

"Lucifer," Sam hissed.

"Oh, so you've heard of me? I'm flattered."

In a split second Sam had one of his blades in hand and ready to strike, but before he could even make a move to lash out, the blonde's hand was around his wrist, holding him back. Dean had to rope himself in hard to hold back from running straight at the guy, but something about the man's bearing spoke volumes to how much of a threat he really was.

"Careful with that thing, Sammy. You could take an eye out – and really, you've only got one to lose, don't you?"

Lucifer looked over at Dean, making sure he understood exactly how out of depth he was, and as quickly as he'd closed in on Sam, he was back to where he'd stood in the first place. Without hesitation Dean moved in close to Sam's back, dagger in hand. Surely they'd be able to do more damage if they moved together. Except Lucifer looked like he was about to crack up laughing, and in Dean's mind, that didn't bode well.

"Start talkin'," he demanded, thinking quickly.

"And say what, Dean-o?"

"I think you know," Dean spat, feeling Sam tensing up at his side, "You approached us for a reason. And you called us the Winchester duo for a reason, too. My surname happens to be Smith, but since you know who I am I'm guessing you already knew that."

Lucifer grinned. "Look who's a clever boy then? You know you really were much better at your job than you got credit for. You would've made a great detective, y'know?"

Dean held his anger in check. "As it happens, they did offer. I said no."

"Oh, now that's interesting. I don't suppose it had anything to do with your former partner, did it? Such a tragedy befell poor Benny. He was taken well before his time."

"And what would you know of it?" Dean growled.

"Tetchy," Lucifer teased, pacing here and there like he owned the place. "And no doubt I'd know a lot more than you could even imagine."

"Try me."

The blonde chuckled. "So eager. It's adorable."

"You gonna answer the question any time soon?" Sam piped in.

"But of course, Sammy. There's no way I could keep this tasty little morsel to myself any longer."

Lucifer did make them wait all the same. He paced in circles for several minutes, picking idly at his fingernails and smirking every now and then as Sam and Dean continued to stare him down with their eyes. Their blades were still gripped in their hands, but it was looking as if they wouldn't be getting a chance to use them any time soon.

"Do you know how you got to that orphanage, Dean?"

Dean froze, and didn't dare take a breath.

"It really is quite a sad story. But basically you were dumped there carelessly by someone who didn't even know your name, only that you were the first son of the most heartless bastard that ever lived. And you Sammy… you know all about that heartless bastard, don't you? He taught you how to pick up a knife, and then how to use said knife to slice open a man's body, and make them live just long enough for them to watch their own entrails fall out. A real charming guy, wouldn't you say?"

Sam cleared his throat. "Why should we believe you?"

"Why indeed, Sammy. But I think if you did a little digging, you'd find enough evidence to support my accusations."

Sam and Dean shared a look – taking their eyes from their target for the first time since he'd appeared. It wasn't hard for them to put the pieces together, consider the outcomes. Mothers hadn't been mentioned, but it seemed they shared a single 'heartless bastard' in common.

Lucifer stepped in closer, and both warriors automatically shifted into fighting stance.

“Do you know what your father did to me, Sammy?”

Dean watched as the blonde got far too close to his apparent brother for comfort. Lucifer was intentionally getting into their space, riling them up, though Dean couldn't precisely tell whether Lucifer was just playing, taunting them for kicks, or if he aimed to actually hurt them in the end. He was hard to read in that way, and it made Dean only that much more enraged by the whole situation.

Sam snorted at the question. “Probably no worse than what he did to me,” he mocked.

“Oh,” Lucifer chimed, his head crooking to the side in thought, “Well, yes, you’re probably right. Maybe you don’t remember, but I was there back then, at the camp. I saw it all go down. Granted I was usually locked in a bamboo cage and strung up twenty feet in the air. But one does get a pretty good view from above, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sam’s face darkened. That there was anyone still living who had witnessed his shame like that… was not something he could deal with. Especially not now.

"Aww, poor Sammy. I'm sorry you're still hung up on your daddy issues, kiddo."

Even from where he stood, Dean could hear Sam's teeth grinding together, but a brief touch of Dean's hand on his shoulder steadied his rage just enough.

"That's sweet," Lucifer purred, and somehow he moved in close enough that Dean felt the warm skim of his breath lightly over the back of his hand, where it was still pressed to the leather of Sam's jacket. Dean would have moved, but the blonde was gone again before he could react. "But, nice as it was talking to you both, I really gotta dash – things to do, chaos to plot, you know how it is."

Neither of them moved as Lucifer backed away and ambled down the alley, his hands in his pockets.

"Don't worry though, kids. I'll be seeing you again real soon, I just know it."

The two High Hellions who, up til now, hadn't moved an inch, suddenly advanced on them with hunger clouding their eyes. Sam and Dean immediately parted, each of them picking a beast to take on – one-on-one was fair game, right? Dean saw Sam lunge at the Hellion out the corner of his eye, putting the weapon in his hand to expert use. He was fluid but ruthless, slicing the creature's shoulder open on the first jab, and Dean just wanted to sit there and watch.

But he had other things to deal with – namely the Hellion standing just a couple of feet away. It was his first real fight as a newly minted Flock warrior, so he had to make it count. Dean still had the dagger in his hand, so he quickly whipped it up to chest height, twirling it threateningly where the High wouldn't be likely to miss it. He circled to the side, waiting for it to strike, and strike it did. It came straight for him as if it couldn't help itself, like the rope that had been holding it back had finally dropped away. Dean skirted to the side again and brought his hand down low, clipping it in the thigh. The thing grunted angrily and Dean quickly slipped his second blade from its sheath, swinging both arms in a complete circle and relieving the High of two and a half of its claws.

Flexing his arms, Dean breathed with contentment, enjoying the easy strength and speed of his new body where his previous incarnation had needed to struggle and push endlessly.

His confidence made him careless, though, and before he could blink Dean found himself with a ravenous Hellion breathing its foul stench down his neck.

"You've changed costumes, Wingman."

There was that voice again, like murky water spiralling down a drain. It had Dean freezing up in an instant, his eyes wide with fear. There was just _no way_ …

He could feel the creature's arms rising up behind him, ready to slice him up into little pieces, but somewhere in the split second before contact was made, something inside him took over and time seemed to come to a standstill. His eyes dropped shut so he was looking only at the blackness behind his eyelids. Except it was more than that. It was like he could see and feel the creature and its lifeblood all at once.

Dean didn't even have to try. He just opened his mouth and the shadow from within the Hellion ripped smoothly from its outer body, pooling up in the air for a moment before tumbling like an avalanche straight into his throat. It stung. And tasted foul. And felt like he'd swallowed a rock. Just gross.

"Dean?"

He opened his eyes to Sam looking back at him, gaze filled with worry. There was a splatter of black over the left side of his clothing, but other than that he was completely fine.

"Dean, what happened? Start talking or I'll never let you out to patrol ever again."

"You wouldn't," he teased, "At least, I'd wear you down eventually."

Sam pursed his lips.

Dean relented.

"Yeah, okay, so these guys really like to have a fuckin' chat, right? And it spooked me and caught me while I wasn't lookin' and then just _bam_. Same as last time. Something just, like, took over and sucked it in like spaghetti."

"So…" Sam thought about it for a moment, "So, you can't control it?"

"Hell if I know. I haven't _tried_ to control it. What do you think it is, anyway?"

"No idea, man. I dunno what-… Dean? You feelin' okay? You look a bit…"

Dean was about to say yes when it occurred to him to think about it. His stomach was kind of _off_ , and, well… his hands were a weird colour. "Ugh, maybe not so much. Feel like I'm gonna—"

He launched himself to the side and said hi to the steak he'd eaten earlier. He coughed and spluttered for a few minutes, Sam patting his back sympathetically, until he finally wiped his mouth and straightened up.

"Feelin' heaps better now, actually."

 

+||+||+||+||+

 

"Do you believe him? What he said about us?"

Sam looked up from the blade his was polishing, staring at Dean from his chair across the room. They'd both showered – and Dean had all but scrubbed his mouth with mouthwash – and they were in sweats again, gearing up to go to bed. Neither of them had said anything on the way home besides Sam asking if Dean was okay every five minutes. And maybe Dean wasn't usually the type for deep and meaningfuls, but what Lucifer had said to them earlier had really gotten under his skin. Besides, he needed to know where Sam stood on the issue. If things between them were gonna go to shit already, he needed time to deal with that.

"I don't know for sure," Sam admitted, finally putting his weapons away, "But he's got no reason to lie. And anyway, I've been thinking about things. Things I heard my father say, and things I heard _about_ my father, and it seems to all make sense."

"I see."

Sam stood from his seat and pointedly made his way over to Dean where he was sitting on the bed. "I'm not sure that you do. Everyone's been making a big deal about how we're both similar in age, right?"

"Right."

"And supposedly something happened a few years before I came along that turned my father from generally callous, arrogant warrior into 'I'll rape your wife and eat your young' heartless-type warrior."

Dean blinked. "And supposedly that's something to do with me."

"I think so, yeah," Sam nodded.

"So maybe it really is like Lucy said. Someone stole me away and your - _our_ \- father went nuts."

"And then a few years later he got me as a replacement but it didn't make him feel any better."

Dean watched the emotions play over Sam's face. Obviously it was a sore spot for him – or maybe 'gaping wound' was more accurate – but it only made Dean want to try harder to make him feel better. Sure, Dean had his questions, just as any not-so-orphaned child would, but it wasn't as if Sam was the only one who had met him. Castiel had seemed pretty chatty, if a little rigid, so he'd have to ask him sometime.

"So then, we're…"

"Yeah," Sam sighed, flopping down beside him on the mattress.

Dean took the opportunity to push him down on his back and lie down beside him. He shuffled close enough that each time Sam exhaled it would puff over the side of his face.

"I don't feel any less strongly about you, if that's what you're worried about."

Something flashed in his brother's eyes.

"You mean it?"

Figuring his actions would speak louder than words, Dean ducked his head just slightly and brushed his lips just lightly over Sam's. He felt Sam gasp, the rush of air skimming over his mouth, and he licked at him, coaxing his mouth open and into the kiss.

Perhaps their newfound connection would blow a few people's minds, but if there was something Dean was determined it would _not_ do, it was to break them apart before they'd even gotten started.

 

+||+||+||+||+

 

Dean stood back from the lesser Hellion he'd just plunged with a knife. He'd been feeling strangely woozy ever since he'd sucked up that High two nights before, but he'd insisted they go out again anyway. Now that he had a theory or two to test, he was determined to find out exactly what he could and couldn't do when it came to the (not-so) simple art of creature consumption.

The night's findings so far included 'yes, he could do it intentionally' and 'no it didn't work if they were already dead'. Dean nodded in satisfaction. Finally he was getting somewhere.

"And here we all are again."

Sam and Dean whirled around in sync, finding themselves faced yet again with Lucifer. His skin was as horrible and blistered as ever, and this time he'd brought not just two High Hellions with him, but a whole dozen.

"What a coincidence," Dean groused, "I could almost think you had it in for us or something."

"Ah, and there's those adorable detective skills of yours. Like I said, Dean-o, you really were robbed by staying as just a beat cop."

The former warrior sauntered toward them, licking his lips.

"Y'know, I've been watching you, and I've seen your little tricks. So I brought a few of my children along, and I hoped you might give me a demonstration."

The beasts ignored Sam completely, and bombarded Dean all at once. He lashed out with his blades, but in the end he simply had no choice. This time he _willed_ his body to take over, his eyes closing and his arms going slack. Black smoke was teeming into his mouth until it suddenly wasn't. Then there was a subsequent cluster of thumps as the empty bodies fell to the concrete like dominoes.

And then there was one last thump. Dean realised a moment later that it was him.

 

+||+||+||+||+

 

It's all grey. All he saw was grey. It wouldn't clear no matter how many times he tried to blink it away.

Dean groaned and tried to move, but the motion just made his head spin and he suddenly felt the increasing need to upchuck. He needed to get up, made an attempt to, and something pushed him back down again, a warm hand draping itself over his forehead. It's blissful.

"It's me Dean."

The words glided over the side of his face. Smooth like silk.

"Don't try to move okay? I don't know what you're feeling right now, but you look like you're in a lot of pain."

He didn't know how he felt. It was just numb. Numb and cold.

"You sucked in all twelve of those Hellions, man. Can't fucking believe you did that. And now I don't know what to do. You're pale as a sheet. And your eyes are all weird. I just… don't know what to do."

Dean could feel his body shivering with cold, and he sensed the dip of the mattress as Sam climbed in next to him. Long limbs wrapped around him and anchored him to the living.

Time passed in a haze.

He woke after an unknown amount of time and blinked his eyes open. He could just make out the vague shapes around him, but it was still as if there was a veil of cloud over everything. Standing on a hill in the early morning mist.

Dean turned to his side, reached out, and found Sam gone. That one realisation was like a stab to the heart, and despite the roiling nausea he forced himself upright. He had to find Sam. _Needed_ to.

There was the sound of running water and Dean immediately knew what was up. He shuffled his way toward the bathroom, feet skidding over the threadbare rungs lining the floor, to find the door ajar. His knees were getting weak, they didn't want to hold him up any more, but he was nearly there.

"Nh… Sam? You there?"

Something clattered on the ground, and there came a gasp from nearby. The bathroom walls were all white and it was like a light was being shone straight in his eyes, blinding him.

Suddenly Dean's legs gave out and he was falling, but strong hands were there to catch him. Bare hands. A hand. That felt rough and tight with scars.

"Fuck, fuck, no, _Dean_. Don't, please, don't leave—"

But Dean wasn't going anywhere.

He was half kneeling on the tiles, half propped against a familiar hard-muscled stomach. His eyes were clear. And his hands were sure.

And he intertwined his fingers with Sam's left hand. It was shaking.

"Sh-shit, Dean, I thought I'd-... b-but you-"

"Right here, Sammy," he said, wincing at the rasp of his voice. Just how long had he been asleep exactly?

"Three days," Sam sighed, a long moment passing before he realised what he'd done. "What-?"

Dean shut him up with a kiss, a long hard kiss that he never wanted to end. The longer he stayed in contact with Sam's cursed hand, the better he felt, they endless grey soon falling away completely. The veil slipping away from his eyes.

Pushing to his feet, Dean dragged Sam along with him, pulling them both into the shower which was still running. He grunted when Sam suddenly pushed him into the wall, the soap dish digging into his back, but he couldn't bring himself to move.

"Fuck, Sam, keep-"

"Is this even real?" Sam cut in, "Tell me it is. Tell me this hand is actually good for something worthwhile."

Looping an arm around his brother's waist, Dean pulled their bodies flush together, Sam's back shielding him from the water showering down from above. Dean made a point of swivelling his hips back and forth, grinning when he felt the answering twitch of Sam's cock between their bodies. They hadn't tried this in the shower as yet.

"Pretty sure I can find a good use for your hand, Sammy," he teased, and he lifted his chin and coaxed Sam down with his tongue, nipping at his lip playfully. A thought suddenly occurred to him and he focussed for a moment to will his fangs to drop into place, before going back to Sam's lip and biting just hard enough to taste blood.

Sam started at the sting, and he gasped when he realised what Dean was trying to do, bringing his hands up to hold him at bay.

"That's... We're not supposed to do that."

Dean pouted. "Why not?"

"I don't know why. It just _is_. It's been a rule for as long as _I_ know of, at least."

"Ever heard the saying that rules are made to be broken?"

"'Course," Sam smirked, "I'm guessing that one was pretty much custom made for you, right?"

"You don't know the half of it, bitch."

Dean gasped when Sam leaned down to his neck, something sharp, like the point of a needle, tickling the surface of his skin.

"Show me?"

It was music to a guy's ears. And Dean had every intention of utilising it to the fullest.

Firstly he dropped his right hand down to waist level, encircling both their cocks and stroking them together, his knuckles brushing against the dark hair peppering Sam's lower abdomen. It was hard to make himself focus on anything but that for several long minutes, but eventually he returned to the task at hand, his free hand slipping over the planes of Sam's chest until he reached his neck.

Hesitant, but determined, he let the points of his teeth sink into the flesh of his brother's shoulder, Sam jerking against him when he finally pierced deep into the flesh. The taste of blood filled his mouth and Dean's whole body throbbed with hunger for it, his dick pulsing in his hand.

Clearly getting impatient, Sam whacked his wrist out of the way and took over, his larger wrapping around them more fully. He didn't stop there though, sliding his left hand down between Dean's butt cheeks, rubbing gently against the furled ring of flesh. Dean couldn't hold back a gasp at the intimate contact, his fangs dislodging from Sam's neck. It had been forever since he'd let someone touch him there, but the fact that it was Sam, the fact that he was using that hand, the scarred ridges catching on his rim, there were no words for how sated he felt in that moment. And he hadn't even come yet.

"...Sam?"

Fingers prodded at his hole, just the one fingertip slipping inside, swirling around gently.

"Fair's fair," he teased, pushing the finger in deeper.

Dean's back arched as Sam found that place inside him, rubbing relentlessly until he couldn't hold back a cry of pleasure. His body tensed and Dean's orgasm rushed over him like a wave, catching him completely unaware.

When he finally came back to himself he found Sam holding his hand out to let the evidence of their release spiral down the drain. He looked up into both Sam's eyes, his hair slicked back by the water, to find a haze of contentment lingering there.

"You did?"

"The way you looked... And feeling you clench around my finger? Gone, man. Just _gone_

Dean smirked, leaning over to turn the water off.

"I ain't even finished with you yet."

 

+||+||+||+||+

 

Dean wakes to intense heat.

There’s smoke billowing from somewhere behind him, but for some reason he can’t make himself turn around. It’s like there’s someone standing there with their hands around his neck, forcing him to bend to their will. He’s pushed forward and has no choice but to comply, turning left and right as he’s bid, until he’s faced with what looks like the entrance hall to the Flock house.

It’s the same wood panelling on the walls, the same metalwork on the bannisters, but there’s still something about it that doesn’t look right.

It's probably the ocean of liquid black, far as he can see, tumbling over the floor like waves.

Looking to his right he sees Sam, just standing there. Sam's watching something intently, and as Dean turns back around, he sees that it's himself. There's another Dean, sitting in a cage, dangling from the room of the hall. Smoke and flames are coursing around him, but Dean Two doesn't seem affected by it.

Sam waves to him and leaves in a hurry, flying down the stairs and racing through the rolling liquid as if it weren't even there.

Dean tries to follow him, but the moment he steps into the waves, the blackness drags him down. Swallows him whole.

 

+||+||+||+||+

 

Sam didn't even have his pants done up before he was already sprinting down the hall. Castiel's room was his first port of call. He didn't bother to knock, he simply let himself in and started shaking his older brother awake.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, Cas you gotta wake up, man."

The Wingman eventually cracked open an eyelid, his body reflexively sitting upright once he identified his intruder and nearly knocking Sam in the face.

"What in the Superior's name? Sam, you know its… five-oh-five? There'd better be a suitable explanation for your waking me before dusk."

"You think I'd get you up like this without a reason?"

Castiel pondered the question a moment. "No, I suppose not. I'm hoping this means you might inform me of said reason."

"I had a vision," Sam confessed, biting his lip as he waited for Castiel's reaction, "A small army of Hellions is heading this way. Right now."

The Wingman's shoulders dropped in a hunch. "Sam, you realise how absurd that sounds?"

"I promise you, it's real. I don't know why none of the Flock believe me even when my visions have come true before, but I can't just shake it off this time. They're coming through the sewers. They'll come out into the open from the man-hole at the end of the laneway and their going to bombard the compound from all sides." Sam implored his brother to see that what he was saying was truth. Of all the times he'd recounted his visions to his brothers, Castiel was the only one who had ever listened to him with genuine concern.

"I… I'm not sure what to say, in that case. Do you know what we are to do?"

"There's nowhere to run. We have to fight them. Lucifer said as much."

Castiel's eyes popped. " _Lucifer_! Sam, that's… The First Made has been gone for centuries."

"Everyone always said that my dad killed him, but anyone with sense would know that's not true – Lucifer would never have gone down so easy, we woulda known about it if he had. Cas, do you remember the baby that disappeared?"

"Of course."

"Lucifer was the one that stole that baby away in the middle of the night. He didn't kill it. He took it to a human orphanage. He left it—"

"Sam, stop." Castiel shook his head and sighed. "That baby was Dean, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. And now Lucifer wants to end it all."

"Okay, I believe you. But what about Dean? I'm assuming he won't be able to fight."

"I've locked him in my basement. He'll be safest there. I can't risk him getting hurt."

Castiel looked like he was about to protest, but then thought better of it. "I'll make sure everyone is up and ready. But even if we fight these Hellions, what of the First Made?"

"Leave that to me," Sam said, his expression set with determination, "I'm on my way to the Summoning Room now."

"You know," Cas grinned, "You might just be even more crazy than your father."

No further words needed to be said, so Sam rose to his feet and nodded his farewell to his older brother. He could trust Castiel to do what needed to be done, so thought no more of it as he marched his way across the compound to the Summoning Room. At first, all was dark and quiet as per usual, but as Sam made his way further inside he was stunned to find the Superior already present. Even more startling was that he was in his human form, once again in a flannel shirt and old jeans, and he was kneeling on the floor on a cushion, head bowed and hands resting on his lap.

"Superior? I wasn't expecting to—"

"Just call me Chuck," he interrupted, raising his head, though not far enough to meet Sam's eyes, "I'm not feeling particularly superior right now."

Sam frowned. "Why? What are you doing? …It kinda looks like you're meditating."

"You know some people use meditation as a form of prayer?"

"You're _praying_?"

"No." Chuck looked back down at his hands. "Maybe I'm reflecting, though. Looking back upon my mistakes to see what I could have done differently… I've made so many mistakes, Sam. We wouldn't be in such a dire situation if it weren't for me. None of you would've had to endure such hardships. There's really no way for me to apologise enough."

"I'm not sure how to respond to that."

Chuck sighed. "Sit down. I have some confessions to make."

"I doubt that confessing to me will absolve you of anything," Sam said, even as he took a seat on the floor sitting opposite the Superior.

"Maybe not, but you still need to know these things if you're to make sense of this whole mess."

"Time for a history lesson?"

"Yeah. Gotta start at the beginning, like they say." Chuck wiped his hands down the side of his jeans and rolled his shoulders back. "So, a really long time ago I was charged to watch over a people. Things went well for the most part – they'd make regular offerings to me and I'd make sure they were moderately healthy and their crops were sufficient. But as the world's population grew, different communities would cross paths and sometimes there'd be disagreements, sometimes the locals would freak out a little if they came across people who looked bit different. Mostly it was manageable.

"There came a point where a group of ferals tried to encroach on my people's land. They were nomads, hunters who'd grown up wild in the forest somewhere. They were vicious in their search for food, and over time had taken a liking to the taste of human blood. It was the first time my charge had been threatened and my people were being killed – I had to do something. I asked for volunteers – five men, five women – and I changed them. I granted them what I thought were gifts. But those so-called gifts poisoned their minds and they became even more wild and vicious than those ferals it had been their purpose to kill."

"Hellions?" Sam chanced. He got the feeling that no one had ever heard this version of the story before, and Sam was eager to know every detail.

Chuck nodded sadly. "That's eventually what they became, yes. It was a mistake to have changed both men and women. At first I'd thought it was only fair, but in the end all I accomplished was that my creations-gone-awry were able to procreate. Each generation of children that came about were slightly more mutated than the last, and it got to the point where I was terrified of what I'd done and didn’t know what to do. It wasn't in my power to will them dead, and there was no way I could ask my people to try and fight them."

"If you couldn't kill them, what did you do?" Sam asked, intrigued that his maker didn't possess the ability to destroy what he himself had made, "Couldn't you change them again?"

"I did try that on a couple of them but all it did was transform their ferociousness into sheer madness. The only thing I knew I had skill at was creating, so I put myself to work and started making hunters from scratch."

"The Flock?"

Chuck's smile showed itself briefly, but quickly retreated back into blankness. "Not at first. The initial lot were almost robotic. They knew their purpose and not much else, which got them killed pretty quickly. I eventually figured out the trick, which was to use my blood along with part of a normal human and form the humanoid around it. That's how the first Flock was formed – your father among them."

"And when you say human parts you mean—?" Sam was vaguely horrified by the prospect.

"Oh, no, not living human parts. I took things from the recently deceased. For instance, Lucifer, who was the first as you know, was formed around the brain of a dead man. Your father, from a stomach and liver. Obviously it worked, and they were the monster-killing machines I'd wanted all along. But as time went on and more problems arose, I realised that the organs I'd formed them from had started to leach into the Wingmen themselves. The brain I'd made Lucifer from had been taken from a greedy, jealous man, so in turn Lucifer became hatefully jealous of my abilities as their maker and tried everything to steal my powers. Your father was ambitious and consistently vengeful. But they did their job and weren't afraid of death."

"Michael came next?"

"Yes. The first faction lasted well over a century. But they weren't immortal, and were subject to death in the same way as men, so in the end I found myself with just two and a half left – the half being Henry, since he sustained an injury but still managed to survive. Anyway, the next time around, thinking I'd learned from my mistakes, I introduced my blood into infants."

"You _what_?"

"I guess nowadays it sounds bad. Back then it was common for women to die during childbirth or for children to be born with problems that the parents couldn't handle. I took ten unwanted children and raised them in the small community we'd set up. As you know your father trained them from a young age. Only half survived."

Sam swallowed. "And me and Dean?"

"I'd been so pleased with how the second faction had worked out. But in my infinite wisdom I'd thought I could still do more, make something even better. I went to your father with my idea, and he agreed at a price. Then I fused an amount of my blood into a female's body and had John copulate with her. Nine months later Dean arrived."

"What was his price, though?"

Chuck looked away. "That once you were born he was to have you all to himself and would raise you as he saw fit. He already was training all the others so I thought that was an okay deal. But as you now know Dean was stolen away. Your father became enraged – moreover, _depressed_ \- and took it out on everyone around him. He was reckless, drunk most of the time, too. Even when he finally managed to get his mistress pregnant with you he never really recovered."

Sam watched the emotions play over the Superior's face. It was obviously a deep and distressing subject for his maker, and Sam was surprised by the lack of self-control he was showing. All his life he'd known the Superior to be a stern-mannered supreme being always cloaked in black, who very occasionally appeared as a scruffy, human male with confidence issues. He was beginning to wonder, however, if the whole thing was actually an act and the Superior was really the other way around entirely. Sam was still reeling with how open his maker had been with him, but there was something that still bothered him about the way he'd glossed over Sam and Dean's conception.

"You regret us, don't you. You regret that you did what you did to create me and Dean."

Hanging his head in his hands, Chuck laughed. It sounded desperate and defeated. "I regret that I got carried away playing God."

"But isn't that what you portray yourself as? It's what we think of you – the Flock, I mean. You're our maker – _our_ God."

"I've said to you once before that I'm not omnipotent. If you were to equate me to a god, then you couldn't say I was a one true god or anything, because there are actually plenty of others like me. Or there _were_. I don't even like the thought of being called a god. It implies that I would be resolute in my decisions and that those decisions would be the correct ones, which, as I've explained, isn't the case at all."

"So what are you?" Sam questioned, to Chuck as much as to himself, "If not a god?"

"A guardian, perhaps? A sentinel with too much power in his hands? And too eager to want to mend the smallest of troubles. My fault is that I react too quickly – I seal the whole in the proverbial bucket with the closest plug available, not bothering to check and see if it's the right sized plug or made from a good material that'll last."

"Well, now we've got Lucifer running about with his legions of flesh-eating children. What's your quick-fix this time?"

"I'm not sure that I have one, to be honest. The easiest way would be to take down Lucifer first. All his 'children' are made of a part of him, so I can't imagine they'd deal very well if he was gone. That said, I can't kill him. I don't have the ability to destroy, just as I've told you."

It wasn't what Sam wanted to hear, but it was better than nothing. It was somewhere to _start_ , at the very least. He needed to think fast, though. Sam couldn't make out any sounds of battle coming from outside, but if the Hellions hadn't arrived already, they wouldn't be far away. And now Sam knew where he had to concentrate his efforts. Taking a breath, he got to his feet and turned toward the door – his weapons were still inside the main house.

"What are you going to do, Sam?"

Sam shot Chuck a dark look from over his shoulder. "I'm going to fix this for you."

"No, wait!"

The Superior finally got to his feet and wrapped a hand around Sam's left wrist, a mere fraction from the edge of his leather glove.

"Don't do anything foolish. Which in turn is foolish of me to say because I know you're going to do it anyway. But, please. You must know that Dean can't - _won't_ \- survive without you. It was under my influence that your father's mistress became pregnant with Dean. I knew as soon as he was in-utero that there was something inside him that was different and beyond my original intentions – such was the consequences of my toying with a natural conception. It's also why I had to force the issue to bring your birth about. I knew that there would have to be a pair of you, to counteract one another. Not to mention that you'd be freaks among freaks, and truly alone without the other."

Grinding down on his back teeth, Sam tried to tamp down on the burst of anger that threatened to break free. For all that his maker had tried, his methods had still failed, and Sam and Dean had both grown up alone, as good as outcasts, with nothing to break their fall.

He shook off Chuck's hand. "I've got somewhere to be."

 


	5. [fic] Devil's Disciples || Sam/Dean, nc17 || Part 5

+||+||+||+||+

Alone in the dark of the basement, Dean sat in a crouch on the bed, his hands wrapped around his stomach.

Something in the pit of his belly ached like the blazes. Once upon a time he might’ve called it food poisoning or gastro, but right now? It felt like fucking _anguish_ , like tears of desperation and pain. Which was a ridiculous feeling to have in your stomach of all places, but at the same time he knew it to be true. Just like he knew it was Sam that was causing it. Dean didn’t know how or why, or what was making Sam feel this way, but that little thread that connected them, it wouldn’t stop pulsing with emotion.

After that freaky-as-shit dream, he’d woken up to find the other side of the bed empty, though the sheets still held the lingering warmth of Sam’s body. When he’d found the bathroom to be empty, he’d tried the hatch leading up to the main bedroom, but it was locked from the outside. He didn’t know if it was Sam’s doing or if one of his bastard brothers was to blame, but he’d beat his hands against it anyway, shouting for whoever it was to let him the fuck out.

Over an hour had passed since then and the anxiety was driving Dean insane. If him being locked in wasn’t enough, the fact that Sam had left before sunset was a pretty obvious sign that something was up. He’d probably considered every crazy possibility by the time he heard the latch rattle, and he glanced up from his position on the bed to see Castiel’s head poking down into the basement.

“Dean. Your presence is required.”

Dean stared down at the ladder and groaned. He didn’t know if he could even get up on his feet, let alone climb a goddamn ladder. But then there was a hand on each of his arms pulling him up, and Castiel took one look at him and frowned.

“You’re still not well.”

“Actually,” Dean croaked, “I’m just fine. Sam and I had a little ‘revelation’ last night, but... now I can feel him somehow. It’s real strong, too. He’s worried about something and he’s in a shitload of pain.”

“I’m not surprised, considering.”

Dean let the Wingman ease him up the ladder, one step at a time, and then he was stumbling out into the bedroom, free at last. That was when he heard all the screaming going on. Screaming and shouting and something that made the floor shake.

“What the fuck is goin’ on? You better start talkin’ or I swear--”

“No need for swearing,” Castiel said, “Sam came to my room early this morning, claiming he’d had a vision. He said that Lucifer--”

“Oh, man, not that Lucifer douchebag. Why’s he gotta be such a bitch.”

Castiel gaped. “You _know Lucifer_?”

“Yeah, he sprung me and Sam while we were out hunting. Twice, actually. And he knows about my... demon-snacking thingy.”

“I see. Well, Lucifer has set his Hellions loose upon the house. Thanks to Sam we were able to prepare in advance. However, the sheer amount of Hellions that have been brought upon us is... unprecedented.”

Dean could see where this was going. “And lemme guess, you want me to do a little Hoovering for you.”

“It would help, yes.”

Sighing, Dean nodded in acceptance. Maybe helping out some would get him a little good grace from the other brothers. But there was just one thing... “Where’s Sam at?”

“He, um,” Castiel looked away, clearly not wanting to deal with the topic at hand, “He went to visit the Superior. Then I believe he was intending to go after Lucifer.”

“Stupid bastard,” Dean hissed. “Where the hell--”

Castiel grabbed his shoulder and held firm. “You might find that even if you knew where they were, there would be a sea of Hellions in between.”

“Fuck dammit!”

Continually cursing under his breath, Dean hurriedly changed into his fighting gear, strapping his knives around his chest. He followed Castiel through the maze of hallways until they emerged onto the landing, looking out over the entrance hall. The scene was eerily like his dream, the brothers fighting at full strength and spilling so much Hellion blood that the floor and walls looked painted black. _Oh, jeez_...

From where he stood he was able to look out of the front windows and onto the stretch of grass that bordered the mansion. Except that there was no grass to be seen this time, all he could make out were Hellions, as far as the eye could see.

He glanced back at Castiel, exhaling a long breath and rolling his shoulders. If he was going to do this... Well, he didn’t even know if he could. Twelve was the most he’d taken in one go, and that had been bad enough. Yet something in the back of his mind told him that this was possible. If he concentrated hard, tried to focus on the army as a whole...

“Dean?”

“Just wait there, Cas. Might get messy.”

Dean moved to stand in the centre of the staircase, allowing him to look over the attack from above. He let his eyes drop closed and he reached out with his consciousness, waving his power around in front of the army like a carrot on a stick. Even though he couldn’t see them with his eyes, Dean could somehow see them in his mind, their red eyes glowing in the darkness.

They raged as they caught wind of Dean’s presence, something about his spirit unsettling their inner essence within their physical bodies. That essence was what Dean took a hold of, grabbed it with all his strength and didn’t let go. He pulled and tugged at it like rottweiler with his jaws wrapped around something tasty, wrenching at their insides until they gave way.

The flood of blackness that suddenly came at him hit him like a punch to the gut with an iron fist. Dean felt himself take a step back to get his balance right, and opened his mouth to let the Hellions in. There was so many of them they had to claw and fight their way inside, and Dean felt the burn as they forced their way down, pooling in his chest.

Even then they didn’t stop moving, rolling and battling for space. Scratching and biting and lashing out. Yet they kept on coming, kept filling him up until he was so full his whole body ached.

There was a sudden _snap_ as the onslaught ceased, and Dean let his eyes flicker open to get a glimpse of the entrance hall. How many had he taken inside himself? Did it even make a difference? Maybe he’d only grabbed a few of them - and then what? There was no way he could take anymore. Just no way.

But his eyes failed him. He should have been looking at the brothers fighting, and the growing pile of Hellion bodies scattered over the floor tiles. All he could see was grey. Like a fog so thick he couldn’t see his own hand in front of him.

“...ee...”

“...ean...”

A voice called his name from far off. He could have called after them perhaps, but it was too late.

Dean dropped away into the void, Hellions eating away at him from the inside out.

 

 

 

 

"I'm ready for you this time."

Lucifer laughed and crossed his arms over his chest.

"You've been preparing? Gosh, I don't know what to say. You really know how to make a guy feel wanted, Sammy."

Sam couldn't take this anymore. Lucifer needed to get gone already; else he was just going to haunt them for the rest of their existence. And that was not on. Rolling his shoulders back, Sam made a show of pulling both his gloves off and dropping them to the ground.

"Ooh, the hand of death finally makes an appearance! I've been looking forward to this, I gotta say."

Keeping himself on his toes, Sam kept a distance from the former warrior. He wanted to force him to make the first move, but Sam was going to do his utmost to ensure it was head-on and completely anticipated. He'd known Lucifer was going to be hiding somewhere on the outskirts of the grounds. It had taken skill to slip himself past the oncoming mass of Hellions, but it wasn't so hard when you knew how. He worried for his brothers, and of course for Dean, all trapped back in the house. But if the Superior was right, if he could just weaken Lucifer enough…

The blonde came at him, just as Sam wanted, striking straight for the chest and getting a fist to the shoulder for his effort. It was just what Lucifer had intended though, as he grabbed for Sam's wrist and swung the momentum in his favour, bringing their bodies together. Lucifer had his arms pinned at his sides and he snickered when Sam start to struggle, wrapping a hand around his throat in warning.

"I could snap your pretty neck so easy, y'know? A quick flick of the wrist and…" Lucifer made a wet, cracking sound with his tongue. "Or else I could beat you. I do recall how you so loved a good beating back in the day."

Overcome by his rage, Sam lashed out with his left hand, disregarding the precarious state he was in. He flattened his palm on the visible skin at the base of Lucifer's throat, digging his fingers in deep, and willed him gone.

But Lucifer didn't move an inch. Save for the widening of his lips.

"How…"

"Ah, Sammy, didn't you know? All these dastardly deeds of mine, they've altered the composition of my body." Lucifer leaned in close, his breath floating through the loose strands of Sam's hair. "I ain't even technically alive anymore. Crazy, ain't it?"

"No," Sam breathed, eyes wide with disbelief, "No, that's not—"

Lucifer shrugged. "Eh, say what you like. Won't change things."

Sam saw it coming, but couldn't jump back in time to same himself from a knee to the stomach. All the air came rushing out of him, and he reflexively hunched over to protect himself, opening his back up for a finger-punch to the kidney. His knees landed on the ground with a thud, and suddenly his head was colliding with the ground, a boot pressing down on his cheek.

"Tut tut. When will you learn? You'll never b- ah—"

Lucifer's words trailed off into a choked groan. The boot didn't move, but the pressure did recede slightly, and Sam took his chance to knock it back and get himself upright again. He pulled a dagger into his hand – for all the good it would do – and got ready to charge at the former warrior. Except Lucifer didn't even appear to be looking at him, and as Sam focussed, he could see the snappish jerks of his chest, as if he were about to vomit.

Sam stumbled to his feet just in case, but Lucifer's condition only worsened, his knees buckling and his fingers clawing at his throat. Looking on in sheer morbid fascination, Sam wondered what had changed to cause such a sudden change. Seemingly his hand hadn't done anything, but there was no way his brothers could possibly have hacked their way through that many Hellions in so short a time.

"In fact, there was no hacking involved at all."

Whipping around, Sam came face to face with the Superior in all his black-cloaked glory.

"But you said you couldn't—"

"And indeed I didn't." The Superior raised an arm in the direction of the house. "Leave us. You're needed back there. I can take care of this."

Sam looked back one more time and found Lucifer on his knees, blistered skin literally hanging off of him.

"Long time, no see, Chucky," the former warrior sneered.

"How timely that we should meet like this," the Superior said in response, and Sam could hear the smile in his voice, "I've got a nice little cage just waiting for you, Lucifer."

 

+||+||+||+||+

 

When Sam had been told that he was needed, the last thing he'd expected to walk in on was a hall full of corpses.

He couldn't understand what had happened, how so many Hellions could have been taken down all at once. He'd wondered if the Superior had somehow found a loophole that had quickly and efficiently pulled the plug on the manic beasts. But then he'd ascended the stairs and found his brothers waiting for him, all five of them hovering around a central object.

Or, not quite an object.

It was Dean. Deathly pale and still. And not a speck of blood on him.

Castiel stepped forward. "My condolences, Sam. I let him out of the basement in the hope he could help. I didn't expect he would take every single one into himself."

"No, no, no," he chanted, "I'm not letting him get away that easy."

Sam trembled with fear at the sight of Dean lying there, white as a sheet. He was shaking so much he could barely get his gloves off, and still managed to rip the side of them in the process. His brothers were all crowded around by this stage, though they all took a step back at the sight of his bare hand, the skin pinched and tight looking where the threads of scarring met.

“What are you going to do, Sam?” Castiel spoke up.

Uriel guffawed. “You can’t possibly think to touch him with that? You’ll kill him, if he isn't dead already.”

“Don’t fear, brothers,” Michael cut in, his words aimed at the warriors watching on from either side of him, “I think Sammy-boy is about to surprise us.”

Sam took a breath, nearly beside himself with anxiety and the pressure of all his brothers looking on. But Dean had been the one who said he could do it, so Sam had to believe he could do it, too. He centred himself as he did in battle, and focused on the twinging feeling that lingered constantly within the flesh of his palm. He felt it grow warm, and the surface colour of his skin began to change, as if he were holding his hand over a really bright light bulb.

Tentatively, he placed his hand down until his fingertips and the whole palm of his hand were pressed against the cotton covered expanse of Dean's chest. With the first step over, he focussed completely on the source of darkness he could sense below him, the sensation like there was a wild tempest rolling and lurching around within Dean's body, and only the most fragile sheet of glass separating it from the outside.

Before he could change his mind, Sam delved deep into the black storm, hand still pressing hard again the other man's chest. Dean wasn't recovering with nearly the same speed as he had done the night before, but Sam supposed that should have been expected - a dozen was somewhat different from several thousand.

Sam felt the power of the whirling darkness circling him, preparing to attack, but the moment it raced forth to touch him the darkness was washed away by a shower of light. He sensed the dark clouds trying to back away from him, but somehow he forced them to come toward him instead, and kept on with the onslaught until the last of the darkness had dissipated, leaving only warmth.

Finally he drew back, Sam's vision returning to normal, and there was a split-second of paralysis before his body would move again. Drawing in a heavy breath he grasped at his glove and quickly pulled it back onto his hand – he was simply so used to it now he felt naked without it.

Sam hauled Dean up against his chest, enfolding him in strong arms. Lucifer was safely locked away, swarms of Hellions had been eradicated, their lives were wholly intact. Sam nearly collapsed beneath the swathe of relief that encompassed his exhausted body.

"I understand it now," he whispered against Dean's ear, low enough that his brothers would be none the wiser, "Do you hear me? Chuck knew from the very beginning that your gift would be your destruction. So he made me to save you. He made us need each other so badly that we could never bear to be apart."

Several long, almost unbearable moments passed before Dean opened his eyes.

"And here you are," he rasped, "Bringin' me back from the edge of death again."

 

+||+||+||+||+

 

"Is it over?"

"Nope."

Dean blanched. "You fucking kidding me? After everything?"

"You can't think we'd get the all in one go, do you?" Sam smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. "Lucifer was churning those beasts out for decades. There'll be other nests further away that will have been waiting for his signal, y'know?

"That's not comforting _at all_ ," Dean sneered, "How far away are we talkin'?"

"Well, what do you say to goin' on a road trip?"

 

  


 

 


End file.
